


That Look

by awarrington



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Terrorism, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awarrington/pseuds/awarrington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle are on a flight to Amman to pick up a prisoner on extradition, being held by the Jordanian authorities. On the flight, they find themselves in a hijack situation and Doyle learns some new things about Bodie's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Living Pros_ in 1999.
> 
> I've uploaded the story without any editing from the original, so apologies for the quality of my writing back then. A reviewer had this to say about the story: _The pacing was rather slow as there is a lot of description -- of Heathrow airport, the hoops that air passengers have to jump through, much detail concerning the internal layout of a commercial jet -- all of which slowed the pace of what was presumably intended to be a fast-moving action-adventure. I had the definite impression that the writer had done a huge amount of research on this and was determined to use it all._
> 
> Not research - I used to train pilots and before that I was a stewardess. At the time I thought adding all the detail would give it an authentic feel, and I still think a lot of it is needed as a set up for what's to come, but whatever - you have been warned! :-)

"Look at the speed that idiot's goin'," Doyle said, as the lights of the car that had just passed them were immediately obscured by thick fog.

"People think they're safe on motorways. Nice big road, no traffic lights…" added Bodie, leaning over the steering wheel in a vain bid to see beyond the car bonnet.

"You sure we haven't missed the Heathrow turn-off?" Bodie asked as he continued to peer out into the grey murk. "Didn't think it was this far."

"Nah. 'S just we don't normally do this stretch of the M4 at thirty five miles per hour. Bound to take longer."

"True," Bodie agreed. "It must be a real burden being so clever, Ray. How do you cope?"

"Fuck off," Doyle replied with a grin. After a moment, he continued, "Haven't seen a pea-souper like this in a while. Weird how it was completely clear in London – nothin' 'til we got to the Chiswick flyover…"

"Yeah well it's doing my head in trying to see where we're going."

Doyle leant across and rubbed the base of Bodie's neck. "Better?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Yeah, ta," he replied and bent his neck to the left and right, trying to stretch the tired muscles a little.

Doyle closed his eyes, wishing that the night of alcohol-induced sleep had left him feeling more rested. After a minute, he felt his partner touch his knee to attract his attention.

"What's that?" Bodie asked and pointed out of the window towards the hard shoulder.

Doyle sat forward. "Slow down."

"'Slow down', he says. If I go any bloody slower, we'll stop moving," Bodie complained, but complied anyway.

Doyle ignored him. "The sign says a mile to the Heathrow spur. Watch your odometer, an' we shouldn't miss it."

A few minutes later, they pulled into the Heathrow Police Station car park and from there, CI5 had arranged for a squad car to drive them into the central area. Their driver was not particularly talkative, greeting them with a nod.

Dropped off outside Terminal 3, they walked into the arrivals hall to find it almost empty — unusual for that time of day, as most long-haul flights landed in the morning. Doyle got a sinking feeling, which worsened as he led the way onto the escalator ascending towards the departures level. As they neared, a crescendo of noise greeted them, telling them where everyone was.

The long hall was heaving with people, milling around, sitting on anything they could — chairs, suitcases, boxes — or haranguing the ground staff, who were refusing to check anyone in. A glance at the departures board confirmed that all flights were either delayed or cancelled due to the weather.

"Fuck!" said Doyle searching the board for details of their flight. Beside him, Bodie slung a consoling arm about his shoulder. "I knew Cowley sending us off for a couple of days to Jordan was too good to be true," he added, irritably. "What d’you reckon we should we do? Wait for a bit and see how things go?"

Bodie shrugged. "Best call Cowley and ask," he suggested. "Anyway, we have to bring Gardiner back to the UK - if not today, then tomorrow."

Doyle scanned for a more private location to use the R/T, but every square inch of floor seemed to be taken up with what looked like the world and his brother. "The extradition should never have taken that long," he commented as he continued to look around. "Thought the Jordanians were supposed to be on our side."

"They are. Don't forget Gardiner's been selling arms out that way a long time. He's got friends in high Jordanian places. You heard Cowley in the briefing — said he's on first name terms with just about every Sheikh in the Arab world. We're lucky they released him at all What about up there," Bodie added, obviously on the same track as Doyle about not wanting to draw attention to themselves by using their radio in public.

Doyle looked at where Bodie was pointing to a staircase leading up to some private offices at the far end of the departure area . Being too crowded to walk abreast, Doyle was forced to follow his partner and found himself mesmerised by Bodie's day-glow-orange holdall, slung casually over his shoulder, a stark contrast to the black jacket he was wearing.

"What possessed you to buy a bag that lovely colour?" he asked.

Bodie didn't even break his stride as he asked, "You don't like it?"

"What do you think? I mean, you could have gone for something a bit more subtle, like scarlet or purple with pink spots."

"Yeah, well you just wait till we get to the other end," said Bodie over his shoulder, a smug look on his face. "You, along with everyone else, will be scrabbling around trying to identify your cases off the baggage carousel. I, on the other hand, won't have any trouble at all."

Doyle reluctantly admitted the truth of the statement. His own dark bag would blend in with 50 others that passengers were likely to check in. Following Bodie up the stairs, he found his eyes level with a feature of Bodie's anatomy he'd admired since their first days teamed together, which was currently wrapped in tight, black material. He'd always thought his own bum was slightly lacking in the flesh department. Copying a manoeuvre his partner had recently taken to doing whenever behind him on stairs, he stretched his hand out to give a gentle push on the object of his admiration. He felt the buttock beneath his palm flex and relax as Bodie climbed the steps, felt the warmth of Bodie seep through the trouser material.

Despite the grope, Bodie didn't miss a beat as Doyle heard him start to talk into his R/T when they neared the top. "3.7 to Alpha."

"Excuse me gentlemen, but there's no public access up there," said a voice not far behind them. Doyle turned to see a uniformed security guard half-way up the stairs. "Can I ask you to come down please."

Reaching into his pocket, Doyle silently produced his ID as the man, a little short of breath, arrived at the top.

"Oh, sorry, sir," the guard said with an impressed look. He cast a curious glance in the direction of Bodie who had his back turned, still talking into his R/T before starting to walk away. Then, turning back he hesitantly asked, "Er … are you here about this security threat?"

"No, we're flyin' out of here," Doyle replied, slightly distracted as he tried to listen to the conversation his partner was having with their boss.

"Ah, I thought… Anything I can do to help?"

Before Doyle could reply, his partner flicked the switch and pocketing the radio said, "Yeah, know anywhere quiet we can wait for our flight?"

So, thought Doyle, the trip's still on.

"Which airline are you travelling with?" asked the guard.

"Flying the flag mate," Bodie grinned. "Got to support the home team, eh?"

The guard nodded with a smile. "British Airways? Follow me."

Five minutes later, the two CI5 men found themselves in a busy, but not overcrowded, Executive Lounge. As soon as they walked in, Doyle noticed he was the only one in the place wearing jeans. Selecting a comfortable-looking two-seater sofa, they sat down with a sigh, knowing they could be there for hours. Bodie stretched his arm along the back, and as Doyle scooted down to a more comfortable position with his legs outstretched, he found his head resting on Bodie's arm. Feeling tired, Doyle closed his eyes, content to sit in companionable silence for a while.

"This is the way to travel," said Bodie some time later. "And free drinks too. Get you anything?" he asked.

Doyle shook his head and sat up as Bodie rose. "Too early mate. I'll get a coffee and biccies from over there."

Bodie grinned. "Early? Nothing to do with the skinful you and Jax put away last night, then?"

Doyle scowled, unwilling to admit the truth of it. "We had a good night after you bogged off to see Mandy…"

"Amanda," Bodie corrected. "Should have stayed to nursemaid you, shouldn't I? Trouble with you is you never know when you've had enough." Leaning over the back of Doyle's chair, he kept his voice down as he added, "Drowning your sorrows 'cos Jenny blew you out, were you?"

"Fuck off," he muttered, in no mood for Bodie's gloating.

Bodie grinned and ruffled his hair. "Very eloquently put," he said and sauntered over to the bar.

Five minutes later, Doyle glanced around to see where his partner had got to. He spotted him leaning casually on the bar, chatting up the pretty blond hostess who'd served him.

Bloody hell, he thought with unwilling admiration. He never lets up. Any opportunity an' he's in there.

The young woman in question was mirroring his posture perfectly. Definitely interested, he thought. And she was nice, he realised. Curves in all the places he liked. If he wasn't feeling so knackered, he'd be up there with Bodie.

His attention turned to his partner. He could see Bodie was all smiles, his eyes twinkling as he flirted with her. He was giving her what he'd come to think of as 'that look'. It was a hunter's predatory look, one which he saw Bodie bestow upon women he wanted to bed.

Bodie was currently going through an all-black phase — black trousers, polo-neck sweater and leather jacket. It set off his dark hair and fair skin well — a contrast his artist's eye could appreciate. He'd always thought his partner was handsome in a smarmy sort of way — had acknowledged that fact the day they'd met in Cowley's office nearly a year before. He also had no problem at all understanding what attributes women found appealing in him. Chiselled, well-proportioned features, deep blue eyes set off by his hair and a smile he knew even he wasn't immune to. His body showed him to be in the peak of fitness and the clothes he wore only served to emphasise that fact.

Doyle mentally shook himself. Shouldn't be having thoughts like that outside the privacy of his bedroom and definitely not when the object of many of his best fantasies was so close by. At that moment, a huge yawn overcame him. May as well take the opportunity to get a bit of shut-eye, he decided. Slumping down in the seat, he got comfy and closed his eyes.

 

"Sleep well, twinkletoes?" Bodie asked him as he leant over him.

Doyle dragged himself to consciousness. "Wha'?"

"Wanted some company, so I thought I'd wake you up," Bodie explained.

"What about that bird you were chattin' up?"

"Lost interest in her, when I found someone else far more my type showing an interest in me …"

Doyle looked around. "Who?"

"You," he said simply, turning that blinding smile on him, that look on him.

"Eh?" Doyle felt himself flushing guiltily. "What are you on about?"

"Don't deny it. Saw you watching me. Can tell you're interested."

"Was just wondering where you were," blustered Doyle.

"Right, and I'm the Queen of England. But, if you want to play hard to get, that's fine with me," Bodie said with a sidelong look at his crotch.

Doyle suddenly became uncomfortably aware that he was sporting a hard-on which his tight jeans probably emphasised rather than hid. And what was Bodie doing acting like this here, or anywhere for that matter?

"Besides, you're worth waiting for," Bodie continued, adding to his confusion. Running his hand through Doyle's hair, he moved it to the base of his neck. "But meanwhile, I'll give you something to think about." With that Bodie leaned further forward and pulling Doyle towards him, kissed him.

Even as Doyle responded to the delicious kiss, he felt a rising panic. What the fuck was the stupid sod doing? And in public?

Bodie's lips seemed to melt into his and without conscious volition, his mouth opened to accept his partner's tongue. The kiss was exquisitely sweet and far too short, as Bodie's lips moved away from his mouth, across his cheekbone towards his ear, his hand still caressing his hair.

"Oh Ray," Bodie whispered. "Ray … Ray …" he repeated, his voice getting louder.

Doyle struggled to consciousness, with a strong sense of déjà vu.

"Ray!" Bodie called again, ruffling his hair as he stood over him. "C'mon, we're off soon. Got to check in."

Doyle's disorientation was complete as he sat in a daze, trying to work out where his dream had ended and reality had begun. Bloody hell! What kind of dream was that? he wondered, struggling to wake up fully.

"You were well-gone, weren't you?" Bodie smiled in understanding. "Was she good?"

Was who …? Oh god, the rest might have been a dream, but he really did have a hard-on. Having been sprawled in the chair, he sat up abruptly and immediately regretted it as he nearly strangled his dick. He winced in pain.

"Mind the crown jewels mate," Bodie said with a grin and turned to stroll over to the hot drinks dispenser.

As Bodie moved away, Doyle heaved a sigh of relief. The few moments alone gave him much-needed breathing space to overcome a lingering disorientation. It didn't help matters that his head felt as if it was filled with cotton wool — he'd definitely overdone the nap and had probably slept quite deeply.

Bodie returned with two cups of steaming coffee and handed one to Doyle. "Here, get that down your gullet."

Doyle gratefully accepted the coffee. "What's happenin' then?" he asked, in a frantic bid to change the subject.

"You've been out for a couple of hours. In the meantime, the fog's lifted enough for more planes to land. They just called our flight — we need to go and check in."

As if on cue, the passenger address sprung to life. "Would all passengers on flight BA213 to Amman and BA148 to Bombay, please proceed to check in."

"Should we start makin' a move back to the departure hall then?"

"Nah, we've got privileges here — they've got a dedicated check-in desk over there, so there's no hurry."

Ten minutes later, the two CI5 men arrived at passport control. As the man on the desk opened Bodie's passport, Doyle took a look at the photo and began to chuckle, which his partner loftily ignored.

Having had their passports reissued when they'd joined CI5, both were listed under 'Profession' as Civil Servants. Since that's what Cowley had them listed as, it's what they told everyone their job was.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Doyle turned to Bodie. "With a mugshot like that, mate, you look like you should have numbers across your chest."

"Very droll, Doyle. At least I don't look like a startled golly."

Unable to think of a snappy retort, Doyle stuck his tongue out.

A short walk and they got to the security gate. Taking one of the security men to one side, they showed their IDs and quietly revealed that they were carrying guns.

"You should have got a call from our HQ about us," said Doyle.

"This way," replied the security officer and hustled them behind a tall barrier and into a small office, away from public gaze.

The guard followed them in and ensured there was a table between himself and the agents. "Your guns and those IDs please," he said, his cracked voice and beads of sweat along his upper lip testament to his nervousness.

Doyle met Bodie's gaze -- evidently the call hadn't got through for some reason. There wasn't a lot they could do without making a fuss and so reluctantly did as they were asked. 

Even though Doyle was annoyed, he could understand the guard's reaction. Apart from the Special Branch protection squad, few police officers carried guns - airport police being one of the few exceptions, and even then, only a few of them. So, most police going through the airport in plain clothes would be unarmed - hence the guard's disbelief, despite the evidence of their IDs.

Doyle glanced across at a stony-faced Bodie. In the year they'd been together, he had learned to read much of Bodie's body language, and right now, he could tell from his stance that his partner was very pissed-off. Bodie had the ability to use his size and build to intimidate and Doyle had gratefully watched on numerous occasions as potential attackers had backed down because of it — he'd never had the physique to be able to do that himself. This was one of those times Bodie was deliberately using it — a detached part of himself noted with some amusement that the guard was practically wetting himself.

"I'll still have to call the police," said the security man, watching the two men warily. Without taking his eyes off them, he reached for the phone and dialled a number. "Got two men with live firearms here," he said into the receiver. "Claim they're CI5 …"

"We are," said Doyle, exasperated. "An' we've got a flight to catch. If we miss it …" he trailed off, letting the threat hang in the air. Next to him, he noted Bodie was giving the guard his 'menacing look'. It often worked, and seemed to be now, as the security man glanced at him, nervously licking his lips. Relief flooded the man's face at the sound of running footsteps. Turning, Doyle watched as two uniformed police-officers appeared around the barrier at a run, one with gun in hand.

"Great. Here comes the fucking cavalry," Bodie muttered.

“Are they?” asked the unarmed policeman.

"Probably,” replied the other, “but we’d best be sure.” He then turned towards the two agents. “Can I ask you to put your hands where we can see them."

"Jesus, I don't believe this," said Doyle, lifting his hands. He glanced at Bodie who also complied, and the expression on his face brought the thought to Doyle that if looks could kill … He could almost feel the tension radiating from his partner's body. He wasn't too thrilled himself.

“Why aren’t you carrying any ID on you?” the armed policeman asked.

“We are,” Bodie grated out. “He took them.”

At that, the security man handed over their IDs. The policeman's face dropped as he showed them to his colleague, who immediately holstered his gun. "Joe, if they’re carrying IDs, why the bloody hell did you call us?" he asked angrily. Then added, "A word with you in private please."

As they left, the other police officer spoke up, looking embarrassed as he returned their things. "Sorry about that. We only received the message that you were on your way about ten minutes ago. We were just coming down to let Joe here know."

"Great. Haven't you lot been given telephones yet?" muttered Bodie.

"There's been a bit of a security scare here," explained the police officer, "and communications on lower priority issues aren't what they normally are."

"Oh, we're low priority?" Bodie asked between clenched teeth. "Terrific."

The policeman wisely ignored him and changed tack. “When Joe called and said you ‘claimed’ you were CI5, he made it sound like you didn’t have proof. We’ve had a code-red alert at the airport today and I wasn’t going to risk my neck taking any chances with you. So, which flight are you on?"

"BA to Amman," Doyle replied, before Bodie could get in any other sarcastic comments. There was no point getting stroppy with the bloke — he was only doing his job. Besides, he was in a good position to make their life difficult and Cowley'd kill them if they didn't make the flight.

"Were you told British Airways don't allow firearms into the aircraft cabin?"

"Yes," said Doyle, his patience stretched to the limit. "We're aware of that."

"You'll have to surrender them at the gate and they'll be hold-loaded," explained the policeman. "I'll accompany you down there."

Doyle refrained from pointing out that they were perfectly capable of finding their own way to their aircraft. A quick glance at Bodie told him what he thought of this idea. He shrugged. What else could they do? All he wanted was to get on the flight and away from all this hassle. Why was it, he wondered to himself, that whenever he and Bodie had contact with the police, they acted like amateurs. He suspected he was going to have to sit through Bodie waxing lyrical about what a waste of space the Met was. And being on a plane would mean no escape. He sighed.

"What about penknives?" the policeman asked.

Doyle nodded, thinking he'd better mention it before they set off any detectors.

"Size?"

Digging deep into his inside pocket, he pulled out a Swiss army knife and opened the longest blade.

"That's fine — it's not one of the big ones."

"Nah, just got a couple of small blades, a screwdriver, torch, and a bottle opener."

"Torch? Can't have a very strong beam," the policeman commented.

"Just bright enough to show me where my front door keyhole is when I'm pissed," Doyle confirmed.

The policeman actually smiled and finally satisfied, took them down to the gate. He handed them over to the aircraft dispatcher who led them through a door and down a metal staircase to the tarmac. To their right stood a fair-sized jet aircraft which looked as though it would seat around 100 passengers. Yet its size was dwarfed by its neighbour to the left, which was higher, wider and around twice its length.

When she'd given them their tickets, Betty had told them they'd be flying on a 737. Since the plane on the left had the word 'TriStar' painted near the tail, Doyle decided theirs must be the smaller one.

The fog had lifted, although not enough to be able to see the runway from where they were. An aircraft landed a tad too close to them for Doyle's comfort, as he involuntarily put his hands over his ears.

As he reached the bottom of the steps, the dispatcher turned to Bodie. "We'll let Amman know about your baggage," he shouted over the roar of engines reverse-thrusting close by. "Someone will meet you at the aircraft and you can go straight down to collect them — is that OK?"

Bodie nodded, wincing at the level of noise. Both men removed their guns and holsters, and together with their R/Ts, placed them in Bodie's bag, which he then handed to the dispatcher.

"So you can get immediate access at the other end, I'll make sure this doesn't go in a cargo pallet — we'll put it with other loose luggage in the forward cargo hold and it's air-conditioned, so they won't get too cold," he smiled at them. "Come on, I'll show you where your bag's going."

Both Bodie and Doyle faltered as the dispatcher headed towards the large aircraft.

A moment later, Bodie had caught up with him. "Isn't that ours?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder.

The dispatcher stopped and turned to them. "Didn't they tell you at check-in? We've got so many aircraft diverted this morning, we subbed the 737 on your route for this Tristar and combined the flight with the Bombay."

"Subbed?" Doyle asked.

"Sorry. Substituted it. It'll stop in Amman first, of course. The Tristar is one of the few aircraft in our fleet which has the computer navigation equipment to get in when the airfield's down to zero visibility. Virtually our entire 747 fleet is currently scattered at airports all round the country. You're lucky your flight's going at all — they've cancelled over half of them today."

Walking around to the far side of the aircraft, the dispatcher went up a small set of steps at the forward cargo door with Bodie and Doyle following. Entering the hold, they watched the dispatcher place the bag in a luggage net.

"There you go, safe and sound," he assured them.

Bodie nodded in satisfaction.

The dispatcher left them at the door to the departure lounge - a holding point for the passengers before they boarded the aircraft. Each flight had its own lounge, enclosed by glass walls with one entrance where they were obliged to show their boarding passes to the staff. The only exit was at the far end, which led down to the aircraft jetty.

The final part of their check-in complete, they entered the lounge. Never having travelled in such a large aircraft before, the lounge was bigger than any Doyle had previously been in. Bright and airy, it was decorated with a navy and green zig-zagged carpet, with forest-green seats lining the walls and back-to-back down the centre.

It was already full of restless passengers eager to begin their delayed journey. Indian women in brightly-coloured saris stood in contrast to Arab men wearing the traditional white robes. Children with too much energy ran up and down the lounge playing tag and laughing. Just inside the entrance an argument ensued between a man carrying an enormous box which he wanted to bring on as hand-baggage and two ground staff who had no intention of letting him.

Doyle wandered over to the window and stared out at their plane. He didn't need to look around to know Bodie had followed him.

"That’s a Lockheed Tristar L10-11, that is" said Bodie as he gazed at the aircraft. "Doors open by sliding upwards into the fuselage.”

Doyle looked at him, surprised. Bodie had never indicated the slightest interest in aeroplanes before. He grinned at his partner. "You a bit of a plane-spotter on the quiet?"

"Nah, SAS anti-hijack training. It's amazing what you remember," he said sardonically. "We used to come up here every few months and spend a few hours at the crew training centre learning how to operate the doors. Then we'd lock ourselves in one of their hangars and play on the real thing." A distant smile lit his lips as he added, "Used to bring our own ambulance …"

"Ever need it?" Doyle asked, intrigued.

"Not me, no."

"Do you know that sort of stuff about all the aeroplanes that come here then?"

"No, just the Tristar and 747 — they're the ones mainly used on the Middle Eastern routes."

"And those are the ones likely to be a target of a hijack," Doyle concluded. "But we were supposed to be flying to Jordan on a 737."

"True. We didn't cover seven-threes much because it's the only middle-eastern route it flies and Jordan's political situation isn't as volatile as some of the countries around it. King Hussein's a popular leader. He's qualified to fly those things, you know," he said, nodding his head towards the Tristar. "Did his training over here. He's very pro-western, too."

"Isn't he the one with the American wife?" Doyle asked, struggling to remember details from the information updates the squad members were routinely provided with about Middle Eastern politics and terrorist groups.

"Yeah, Queen Noor."

Doyle was intrigued at the depth of Bodie's knowledge. "Did they teach you all that background stuff in the SAS too?" he asked.

He watched with fascination as Bodie's face took on a closed look.

"No. Just stuff I picked up here and there. " With that, Bodie turned his back on Doyle, apparently distracted by the ensuing argument between now three members of the ground staff and the passenger with oversized hand-baggage.

Just stuff he picked up? That was it? thought Doyle. There was something more here, he was sure. In the year they'd been partnered, he'd learnt that when Bodie closed up like that, wild horses couldn't drag the information from him. He decided to bide his time.

Doyle continued to watch all the activity around the plane as the last of the cargo pallets were loaded. Two trucks had extended their cabins upwards on hydraulic jacks at the mid and rear right-hand doors, to allow catering trolleys to be rolled on. A fuelling truck sat under the right wing, a hose feeding the aircraft with kerosene. The view of the left hand side of the aircraft was obscured by the air jetty which snaked out from the terminal building to the forward left door.

Doyle's attention was distracted by movement beyond the Tristar — the brightly coloured tail of a landing aircraft streaking past. The fog was thinning rapidly now. Hopefully they'd be underway soon.

Boarding of the aircraft started five minutes later and once on, the two men were pleasantly surprised to discover they were seated in Business Class. Offering a third class for business passengers on its intercontinental routes was a new and innovative concept that BA had only recently begun. The comfort level was half way between the sheer luxury of First Class and the cramped confines of Economy class. Bodie and Doyle surveyed their spacious cabin with approval.

It was wide, broken up by two aisles and, as was currently the fashion, was very brightly decorated. The seats were as large as the First Class seats on the European runs, with only six abreast, compared to the nine abreast further along the cabin in Economy. The navy carpet was sober by comparison to the seats. Each was upholstered in a different shade, with orange, red, green, and sky-blue all competing for attention. Had the cabin decoration been described to him, Doyle would have thought it sounded awful, but in a strange way, all the colours seemed to blend together to create a bright, cheerful look.

Although the cabin was long, it contained only seven seat rows, each spaced well apart to allow the business passengers plenty of legroom. Bodie and Doyle were seated in the last row on the right hand side, just in front of the second pair of exits.

At the forward end of the cabin, the bulkhead separating them from the First Class cabin was decorated with a complicated diagram. Doyle recognised it as a picture by Heath-Robinson, of one of his fanciful contraptions. As passengers boarded, the floor-length orange curtains which hung across the aisle had been pulled back, although they would no doubt be drawn across the aisle once the flight was underway.

"Which seat?" Bodie asked.

"Er…window." Moving past his partner, he sat down in the wide seat. "Nice," he approved as Bodie put his jacket in the overhead locker. Doyle had a book tucked into the inside pocket of his, so decided to keep his with him. A quick search and he found a small hook on the side of the seat in front of him where he could hang it.

Bodie sat down, and leaning forward, took out the safety instructions card which he studied in earnest.

Doyle gave him a searching look, wondering why, with all his training, he needed to look at the card at all. "If I didn't know you used to jump out of perfectly good aeroplanes, I'd think you were a nervous flyer."

"Never get complacent mate," said Bodie. "Just refreshing my memory. We always check out all exits when going into dangerous situations, just to cover ourselves. Same on an aeroplane. Would you know where your nearest exit was if we crashed?"

"Right behind us," Doyle pointed out. "Can't get closer to it than we are."

"Yeah, and if those two doors didn't work and neither did the front two? How many rows to the next two aft?"

Doyle shrugged. “Fifteen?”

"Twenty two. You might be crawling along in thick smoke — need to know how far to go."

"Never thought of it like that."

“Can I take your coats?” asked a young steward with a pleasant smile. At least as tall as Bodie, his blond hair contrasted with his dark eyebrows and lashes, making his green eyes very striking. His square jaw and even features reminded Doyle of the models featured in fashion magazines.

"Thanks all the same, but we’ll keep ‘em with us,” said Bodie, smiling back. For a split second, Doyle thought he saw that look on Bodie's face, but if he had, it was gone a moment later.

"You nervous ?" he asked Bodie, nodding at the safety card Bodie still held.

"Yeah, a bit ," he lied easily.

"Well, if you want any of the crew to hold your hand on take-off and landing," the steward grinned, "be sure to let me know."

"Will do," Bodie replied, his smile widening.

Doyle realised he'd taken an immediate dislike to the man. "Cheeky bastard," he said quietly.

Bodie just smiled, which, for some reason, irritated Doyle.

The flow of boarding passengers dried up, and a few minutes later the steward returned. Doyle ignored him by staring out of the window, watching as the various ground vehicles around the aircraft began to pull away.

"Mr Bodie?" he asked, all smiles. Doyle's head swung round.

"Yes." Bodie's face no longer held the friendly look and Doyle thought he detected a suspicious edge to his partner's voice.

The steward's eyes widened in surprise and his smile vanished. For a moment he faltered, before continuing more hesitantly, "The flight crew were wondering if you'd like to sit on the flight deck for take-off. The First Officer says he knows you."

Doyle could tell from the look on Bodie's face that he was intrigued.

"Yeah, all right. Can he come too?"

He. What happened to my name? wondered Doyle, his irritation growing.

"There are two spare jump-seats," the steward replied, while managing not to acknowledge Doyle's glowering presence. "I'm sure that won't be a problem."

At the front, the steward opened the flight deck door, and sticking his head in mumbled something before standing back to allow the two CI5 men through.

The flight deck was more airy and spacious than Doyle had expected. There were three flight crew, with the Captain on the left, First Officer on the right, and behind him, the Engineering Officer. Banks of instruments sat in front of the pilots, above their heads, and behind them on the engineering panel; with so many, Doyle wondered how on earth they remembered what all of them did.

"Bodie!" said a grinning First Officer.

"Bloody hell, Pete! What're you doing here? Swapped one uniform for another, eh?"

"Yeah, you could say that. John," he said turning to the Captain, "meet one of my old mob."

The Captain extended his hand, which Bodie shook. "This is my partner, Ray Doyle," he said and stepped aside to allow Doyle through.

Doyle managed to suppress a wince at the painful handshake from Pete, wondering all the while which 'old mob' he came from — Bodie had several.

"And Don, our trusty engineer…" Pete continued. Don turned briefly to shake their hands, then turned back to the table in front of his panel, where he was writing in a large manual.

"We've been told your arsenal's in the hold," the First Officer said conversationally. "I wondered if it was you when I saw WAP Bodie on the passenger manifest. When we were informed that two CI5 agents were on, I knew for certain."

The three flight crew were a study in contrasts. The Captain was around fifty, thin and lanky with a full head of grey hair. His co-pilot looked much shorter and stockier, with thinning dark hair, while the engineer could only be described as obese, totally bald on top, with a small crown of wispy grey hair and a salt and pepper beard. Doyle was surprised at the size of the man, knowing that flight crew have to undergo six-monthly physical check-ups. Maybe, he wondered, weight wasn't an issue in itself, only the complications that can arise from it.

"What a coincidence, eh?" the First Officer said to Bodie, interrupting Doyle's train of thought. Pete turned back to his captain. "Bodie and I did a tour in Jordan — someone had the bright idea of getting the SAS to train up King Hussein's private bodyguard." Addressing Bodie, he added, "You know we're carrying his son back there in First Class?"

Bodie shook his head.

"Probably a 'Need To Know' thing," said Pete. "His bodyguards have got a load of stuff in the hold too. So, how's your Arabic these days?"

A piece of the jigsaw fell into place for Doyle. So Bodie's spent time there, he thought to himself. That would explain why he knew so much about the place.

"Forgotten most of it," Bodie answered, his voice tight. Doyle could tell from the way he sounded and the way he stood there, all tense, that he was uncomfortable with the revelations. If Pete noticed any of these signals, he was ignoring them. Then again, he realised, why would Pete notice? It was unlikely the First Officer would know Bodie as well as he did. Having been partners for a year, sharing each other's space, encountering danger together, looking out for each other, he'd learnt to read Bodie pretty well. Their lives depended on it.

"Where shall we sit?" Bodie asked, changing the subject away from himself.

Doyle was offered 'The best seat in the house', as John called it. An elevated seat located behind the Captain, he could see above the pilot's head and get a very good, almost one hundred and eighty degree view. Bodie took the 'back seat' which wasn't as high and moving it forward on rails brought him nearly parallel to Doyle, but lower down. Once they'd got settled, they sat in silence while the three flight crew started their pre-flight checks.

Before long, the aircraft was taxying to the end of the runway, the fog transformed now into a heavy mist. Doyle had never sat on the flight deck for take-off before — the wide vista made the whole experience much more immediate than peering sideways out of a small passenger window. To make it more interesting, they'd both been given headsets so that they could listen in to Air Traffic Control.

As they waited their turn in the take-off queue, the three flight crew started to fasten their harness — first the lapstrap, then the shoulder straps, all into one big buckle which rested on their belly. Bodie and Doyle followed suit.

Pete turned to the two CI5 men. "I'm sure Bodie remembers it from his training, but I need to go over what to do in the event of an emergency." Specifically addressing Doyle, he continued, "The primary escape route is through that door into the cabin and out of the nearest available exit. If we can't go that way, see those five handles up there?" He pointed to a place above the engineer's head. "They're inertia reels. Grab one, and if we haven't already done it, then get either of these windows open," he pointed to the two windows beside him and the captain, "and basically jump. The reels will lower you to the ground at a constant rate — you won't land with much more force than if you jumped off a chair. Are you OK on that?"

"Yes," Doyle replied. He cast a dubious glance at the engineer, certain that he would never make it through the window and caught Bodie's gaze as his partner broke out into a broad grin, obviously having come to the same conclusion. He grinned back.

Suddenly, Bodie leant forward and it was with great alarm that he watched him put his hand between his knees. "That's a five-point harness you've got there, Ray. You've only got four of them done up. This," he said, holding up another part of the harness, "is the crotch strap." Doyle's relief was almost palpable. Bloody hell, what did he think his partner was going to do anyway? What was he thinking? That dream had got to him more than he realised.

"It slots into the bottom of the buckle," Bodie carried on, apparently oblivious to Doyle's thought patterns. "Tell you what," Bodie added in a low voice, a definite leer on his face, "to stop you fearing for your virtue, I'll let you do it up."

Christ! Doyle thought with alarm as he buckled the final part of the harness. Maybe I was on the right track after all. What was going on today? The dream, an odd look from Bodie, the suggestive remark. What did it all add up to? Probably nothing, he decided. He was just being oversensitive.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he heard the captain say in his headset, providing him with a welcome distraction from thoughts he had no time to pursue now. "Captain John Shepton here. I'm sorry I've not had the chance to speak to you sooner — I'm sure you'll appreciate we've been very busy up here on the flight deck…"

Odd, Doyle thought, how the Captain sounded like a normal bloke when he listened to him speaking to Pete and Don, but on the public address system, he sounded like a pilot.

"…so rather than cancel the Amman flight, the company decided to amalgamate it with the Bombay. We don't anticipate this adding more than 90 minutes to the normal flight time to Bombay. Meanwhile, I hope you'll sit back, relax and enjoy the flight. I'll be speaking to you again once we get airborne, which should be very shortly."

Pete turned to the Captain with a smile. "So John, I take it you're not going to tell them the only reason the Amman wasn't cancelled was because Hussein's son's on board?"

John laughed. "You're so cynical, Pete! Shouldn't you at least be seen to be towing the company line while we have guests in the cockpit?" With that, he turned and smiled at them, allowing them to share in the joke.

Pete laughed. "What, and ruin Bodie's image of me? Took me a long time to cultivate that!"

"How long before we take off?" Bodie asked, again Doyle noted, deflecting the subject away from himself.

"About ten minutes. We're behind that lot, and those 747s need quite a bit of separation — their take-off creates vortices which last for around a minute after they've gone — very dangerous trying to take-off through them."

"How long were you two together?" John asked Pete, with a glance at Bodie.

Doyle unconsciously leant forward, very interested.

"Around a year, wasn't it?" Pete answered with a question.

Bodie grunted an assent. His posture was closed, his arms folded across his chest.

"But we didn't really get to know each other until the two-month tour in Jordan with King Hussein. Bodie and I were amongst the team selected because we can both speak some Arabic." He turned to Bodie. "Hadn't you been out this way before, some time?"

"Yeah, a while before that," Bodie confirmed in a way that didn't invite further questions.

Doyle noticed Bodie's jaw muscle bunching as his partner's discomfort seemed to increase. He was certain if he could have, Bodie would have left the flight deck to go back to his own seat. So Bodie had been to Jordan, or some other Arab country, before. He wondered when — perhaps with the paras. Unlikely, he decided. Maybe when he was a mercenary. Yeah, that was more like it. Ever since the Six-Day War, there had been constant skirmishes along the Jordanian/Israeli border, not to mention some internal strife only a few years before when bombs had gone off in Amman itself. He could imagine Bodie involved there in some capacity.

"Can you remember that code we devised?" Pete asked Bodie.

"The one based on Morse? Yeah, think so."

"What was that for?" John asked.

"The bodyguards already knew Morse and we wanted a way of talking to each other in private. We worked out this code and tapped out messages to each other on the pipes in the palace. They knew we were doing it, but they couldn't work out what the code was." Pete smiled at the memory. "Think it drove them mental! Here, let's try it out." Pete began to tap on the control column with his pen.

Bodie then replied with some taps to the back of the Captain's seat. Whatever his partner had tapped out, Pete gave him a strange look.

"Made no sense to me," said Don, apparently oblivious to the sudden undercurrent between the two ex-SAS men.

"No, nor me," added John.

"It was a…um…private joke," Pete explained hesitantly.

Doyle felt certain Bodie had told Pete to lay off talking about his past. He decided to change the subject, but not too much. "How did you get from being in the SAS to being an airline pilot in such a short time?" he asked the First Officer. Bodie had only been out for eighteen months and Pete couldn't have left the forces much before that time.

"I was an airline pilot in the SAS," said Pete with a smile. "I was already qualified as a commercial pilot before I joined the squad — everyone has their area of expertise, that was mine. It's a great way of getting into a country undercover. I flew as a BA pilot every couple of months to keep my hand in when I wasn't doing it as part of a mission. When my de-mob time came up last year, BA offered me a full-time job. It's one of the benefits of the airline being a nationalised industry — it's all controlled by government departments. Great for…oh, time to go…"

Doyle had missed the Air Traffic Control instruction they'd been given to line up for take-off and was impressed that the pilots could apparently talk and simultaneously listen out for instructions on their R/T amongst all the other babble to other waiting aircraft.

Pete had turned to face the instruments as the captain put some power to the engines, causing the aircraft to roll forward. Don, who had been facing the engineering instrument panel, now rotated his seat to face forward, allowing him to monitor the engine instruments. Doyle realised that this effectively cut off Bodie's forward view, leaving him only the window he himself was sitting next to.

To get the best possible view, Bodie leant towards him, placing his left arm on Doyle's thigh, and stared out of his window.

As they sat at the runway threshold, next in line, they watched a 747 amble down the runway, very slowly picking up speed and taking a seemingly impossibly long time to take off. Just when Doyle was convinced it was going to run out of runway, the nose tipped up and the wheels left the ground as it headed up into the misty sky.

"That one was heavy, where's it going?" Pete asked.

"The 183 — that's Los Angeles, isn't it?" John replied. "Full fuel tanks."

A minute later and they were lined up on the runway. Doyle watched in fascination as the two pilots worked in perfect co-ordination. John started to move the three thrust leavers forward as the noise of the engines picked up. But the aircraft was sitting on its brakes, so it wasn't going anywhere. Don called 'power set' and John released the break. The aircraft immediately surged forward, the momentum pushing Doyle back into his seat, a sensation he found quite exhilarating. The nose wheel ran over the runway's centre lights, thumping with increasing rapidity, the terminals rushing past them to their right.

"V1," John called out. "V2. Rotate." Pete pulled back on the control column and the aircraft gracefully lifted into the air.

Doyle glanced at Bodie and as their eyes met, both broke out into smiles at the shared experience.

"Positive climb," said John.

That was a strange thing to say, thought Doyle. What's negative climb, then? A crash?

"Gear up," Pete called.

John leant forward and moved a lever.

"Flaps to 20," Pete instructed. Doyle watched, fascinated at the by-play. The two pilots talked to ATC as they were instructed to change course, pressed buttons, monitored the array of instruments before them, and ran through checklists. It was obvious that flying a commercial jet required a tremendous amount of skill, knowledge, and above all, precise teamwork. Yet unlike he and Bodie who had worked together solidly for the past year, it was clear that Pete and John barely knew each other.

The aircraft began a turn and suddenly he was looking out of his side window straight at the ground only a thousand feet or so below them, still swathed in mist. Out of the right window, it was all sky — and brilliant blue in colour. Where had the fog gone? Below them, London began to recede and become indistinct as their altitude increased.

They turned again, this time south into the sun. From apparently nowhere, both pilots put on aviator's sunglasses as Bodie and Doyle were left squinting. After a time, the workload began to diminish. Don turned back to the engineering panel as the pilots pulled green visors around in front of the windscreen.

"The sun'll become less of a problem," Pete said, turning to the two CI5 men, "when we change our heading to a south-easterly one once we get clear of the south coast. One more thing to do…"

Pete punched two more buttons on the console before him, then added, "that's the auto-pilot engaged."

"You mean you're not going to fly it all the way to Jordan yourself?" Bodie asked with a smile. Doyle noticed his partner's mood had changed for the better. "Sounds like you've got a pretty cushy number, Pete. Never mind the passengers should sit back, relax and enjoy the flight — you'll be doing that up here.! And pampered by the air hostesses too!"

"It's a tough job," Pete grinned back, "but someone's got to do it. Besides, the hosties aside, we're paid for what we know, not what we do most of the time. You'll have to come and sit in on one of my six-monthly simulator checks — it never fails to impress."

"Yeah, I just might take you up on it," said Bodie.

"You going to stay in here for the flight?" Pete asked.

"Don't know about Ray here, but I'd like to take advantage of that nice big seat back there."

"Ah, good, you're in the Business Cabin. I requested an upgrade for the pair of you — glad it got through."

Bodie grinned. "And there was me thinking our esteemed leader Cowley had decided no expense should be spared for us."

"Sorry to shatter your illusions, Bodie," grinned Pete. "Your tickets were for Economy, which means you owe me one. Unfortunately, we're going straight through to Bombay, otherwise I'd've let you buy me a drink in Amman. Maybe back in London?"

"We both know where we work, so it shouldn't be too difficult to get in contact to set something up," suggested Bodie. He then unbuckled his harness and stood up. "Ray?"

"Yeah, think I'll go back too."

The expression on Bodie's face at those words looked suspiciously like relief, causing Doyle to wonder whether his partner worried he might try to get more info out of Pete about their shared SAS days. He probably would have done, if there hadn't been two other pairs of ears flapping.


	2. Chapter 2

A few minutes after they got back to the seat, the crew began a drink service. Doyle noted with a certain sourness that the steward he'd decided to call Pretty Boy for want of a real name, was looking after their aisle. Across the cabin in the other aisle was a young, attractive stewardess behind her own trolley.

To Doyle she was exactly what an Air Hostess should look like. Blond, slim with a pretty face, large, dark eyes — brown? he wondered, and a bright smile. He wished she was working their aisle and glanced across on the off-chance there might be a couple of spare seats on her side they could move to — he was certain Bodie would be up to it. But although there were a few empty places, they were all single. Every window seat was occupied. He sighed.

Next to him, Bodie was brooding. He knew his partner well enough to recognise the signs. No point trying to talk to him until he snapped out of it. He was probably still pissed off with Pete for revealing so much.

Doyle thought about that. There was his partner who he relied on to keep him alive, who hadn't given him as much detail about his pre-CI5 history in the entire year they'd been together as some stranger had within the first five minutes of meeting him. In fact, if he stopped to think about it, he knew very little about Bodie at all. The thought was unsettling. What unknown aspects of his past history shaped the man he knew today? And more to the point, he wondered whether there might be some strange circumstances in the future which would cause Bodie to spring some nasty surprises on him — ones which would be unexpected due to his lack of knowledge about Bodie's past.

"Drink, sir?" Pretty Boy asked Bodie, bringing Doyle out of his reverie.

"Are they free?" Bodie asked him with a smile.

"They are in Business Class," the steward smiled back. "They have to pay for them down the back end in Economy Class though."

Bodie pulled down the table, his smile broadening. "In that case, I'll have champagne."

It was all Doyle could do not to do a double take. Champagne? That's a bit decadent — he'd never seen Bodie drink anything other than lager, or the occasional scotch when Cowley was feeling particularly generous.

"Do you like nuts?" the steward asked.

Doyle waited with delight for Bodie's putdown at the obvious double entendre.

"Sometimes," was the unexpected answer, as he continued to grin at the steward. "Have you got some?"

Doyle felt himself flush as his hands curled into fists. Right at that moment, he very much wanted to belt the steward for flirting with his partner. After that, he would belt Bodie for flirting back.

"I might have. Would you like to see what I've got?"

"Here?" Bodie asked, waggling his eyebrows.

The steward laughed and with a flourish held up two packets. "Salted or dry roasted. Which would you prefer?"

"Salted, definitely," said Bodie.

The champagne poured and presented, the steward turned to Doyle. "Drink?"

Doyle noted the absent 'sir'. "Orange juice, no ice, no nuts."

Plonking the glass on Doyle's table, the steward pushed the trolley on. Parking it in the doorway, he disappeared off somewhere.

Doyle, by now, was absolutely seething. "What the fuck are you playing at?" he demanded.

"What you on about?" Bodie asked, his face closed.

Doyle hated that, Bodie being so open with a stranger while shutting him out.

"Flirting with that…steward, that's what I'm on about, and don't insult my intelligence by denying it."

Bodie popped some peanuts in his mouth. "Don't be so parochial, Doyle. Anyway, it's just a bit of harmless fun."

"Harmless fun?" Doyle said in a raised voice. Forcing calmness on himself, and a quieter tone to his voice, he continued, "I want to know why you're doin' it? I would have thought she'd be more your type," he said, nodding towards the stewardess still serving drinks on the other aisle.

Very quietly, Bodie leaned towards him, his face only inches away and asked menacingly, "And since when have you been the great expert on me and my type?"

Doyle stared back at him, refusing to be intimidated by him, but the statement had taken the wind out of his sails. He dropped eye contact and was peripherally aware of Bodie picking up his glass and leaning back in his seat. The fact that Bodie's other hand was balled in a fist on his lap showed he wasn't as relaxed as he was making out.

Doyle thought back over the time they'd known each other, from when Cowley had teamed them a little over a year ago. The first two months had been acrimonious, but they'd soon got used to each other's ways and before long, they started to socialise together too. When Doyle looked back on it, it had taken him ages to persuade his partner to do a double-date, although he'd eventually capitulated. When it came to Bodie's private life, he still kept it private. He realised that all along, he'd just assumed Bodie was straight — he'd even met a couple of his recent girlfriends. Big assumption.

He sat back in his seat and stared out of the window, the view of the French countryside below them scarcely registering.

"'Scuse me," Bodie's voice called beside him. "Any chance of another?"

"Of course sir," came the reply, the voice getting nearer. "I'll give you one right away," the steward added softly. Bodie chuckled as Doyle shuddered.

He could hear the glugging of the liquid pouring from the bottle, but the ambient noise of the aircraft prevented him hearing the champagne actually fizzing.

Why? Why now? Doyle wondered. He's probably pissed — goodness knows how many drinks Bodie had had at the bar in the lounge while he had been asleep.

So why did he feel so angry? Because Bodie shouldn't be acting this way while on duty, came the swift answer. But that was only part of the reason, he knew intuitively. Was it because Bodie hadn't told him of his inclination? Hah! Bodie hadn't told him any-bloody-thing. And that hurt, especially as he'd been pretty candid about his own life and personal history. He honestly hadn't really noticed until this day, as Pete had spoken, that Bodie never volunteered personal information.

He began to wonder why he hadn't noticed. Probably, he decided, because blokes generally don't go on about their past and their families the way he’d seen women do with their mates. So it hadn't seemed odd that Bodie never talked about himself. It was only on stake-outs that Doyle had occasionally opened up with his own personal information.

Yes, now he actually consciously thought about it, Bodie had always been very closed, giving nothing away. Yet, even as he thought it, a doubt nagged in the back of his mind. Had Bodie never opened up? He thought hard, casting his mind back over a dozen stake-outs, and just as many stand-bys. Nothing that he could think of. But the doubt remained — he was missing something, he was certain.

A sharp dig in the ribs brought him back to the present. "Another drink?" Bodie asked. The steward stood there, a forced smile on his face — its presence a mockery when compared to those he had bestowed on his partner.

Bodie's glass, he noticed, had been refilled.

"No…thanks." No need to forget his manners, he decided, even if the bloke was getting royally up his nose.

As the steward manoeuvred the trolley into the galley, Doyle turned to look back out of the window. A moment later, he felt Bodie's warm hand briefly hold his wrist.

"You all right?" his partner asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah," he began and then thought better of it. Get it out into the open. "No, I'm not. Why are you flirtin' with him?" Although he tried to hide it, he was aware of a note of accusation in the tone of his voice.

"Why not? He started it."

Doyle searched Bodie's face for some idea of how he was feeling, but the look his partner was giving him was implacable. "Didn't think he'd be your type — didn't think blokes were your type."

Bodie looked at the floor. "They're not." He glanced back up to meet Doyle's eyes. "Usually. You got a problem with it?" Before Doyle could answer, Bodie added a little more harshly, "And don't try to tell me you've never experimented that way."

It was true, he had. More times, in fact, than he could remember. He was very comfortable with his sexuality. Basically he liked women; liked their company, liked the sex. Just every now and again he got the urge for something different and once the itch had been scratched, he was very happy to return to the birds. He had a strict rule — blokes were always a one-night stand; he never went back to the same one a second time. That way, his sex life remained blissfully uncomplicated, with a clear delineation between the brief encounters he had with blokes versus the relationships he had with women. He had never really questioned his need for male sex — just accepted it as a quirk he had. It wasn't as if he let it rule his life, or anything.

"What if I have?" he conceded, quietly.

Bodie folded his arms across his chest. "Pot, kettle, black."

His partner had a point. So what was his problem? he wondered. "You don't have to go shovin' it in my face," he said after a moment's consideration. "How about showin' a bit of discretion?"

"It's all right for me to chat blokes up, as long as I don't do it in front of you," Bodie interpreted.

Doyle could feel his anger rising. "Yeah, that's right."

"Right," confirmed Bodie. Leaning forward, he took the inflight mag from the seat pocket and began flicking through it, bringing their conversation to an end.

Doyle felt at once relieved and frustrated. Why was Bodie doing this? He hated nasty surprises being sprung on him. This was just one more aspect of Bodie he didn't know about, which led him to wonder just how much he did know about his partner. Not much, apparently. A closed book.

Doyle thought back to the day Cowley had introduced them. They'd each been given a sheet detailing the outline of the other's career to date. He remembered how the word 'mercenary' had jumped out of the page and how it had coloured their first meeting.

Bodie had made some comment about how his army training gave him a superior edge on Doyle's 'plod' background, and he'd immediately retorted about how courageous Bodie must have felt blowing up defenceless women and kids in Africa. At the time, he'd felt elated as he watched his partner-to-be's initially smug expression quickly disappear. Whilst he'd enjoyed doing that to Bodie at that moment, he'd later conceded it wasn't the brightest thing he'd done. In fact, it had taken weeks to get Bodie to anything like approaching a friendly level and then only after Cowley had intervened. He'd told them he had no room in CI5 for children and if they didn't get their act in gear, they'd both be out.

All things considered, Doyle supposed it wasn't surprising Bodie had remained a closed book after that. Information is power and his partner clearly didn't want him to have that hold over him. Ironically, it hadn't taken Doyle long to realise that Bodie wasn't the cold-blooded murderer his profile had indicated he might be. If he'd stopped to think about it long enough, even at the start of his career in CI5, he should have realised that Cowley would never have taken him on if he was. In fact his partner had a strong moral conscience and more scruples than even he possessed.

So here was Bodie finally opening up a little and showing him a side he normally kept hidden, and he was acting like a prat. He sighed.

The steward's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Sorry?" Doyle asked, dragging his mind back to his surroundings.

"Poulet de Kiev or boeuf bourginon?" the steward repeated.

When Doyle hesitated, Bodie endowed him with an exasperated look. "He wants to know," Bodie explained patiently, "if you want chicken or beef."

Why did Pretty Boy just ask him that in the first place? he wondered. "Um…chicken." He watched as the steward took a hot meal out from the oven on top of the trolley and placed it on a tray he'd already extracted. Yes, he was good-looking, he conceded. But not the type he'd go for. Too camp, for one.

He fancied Bodie, though. Doyle had worked that one out a long time ago and although he fantasised about it often enough, that was where the notion was destined to stay. The fact that he now knew Bodie had an interest in that direction would make him all the more wary. A one-off with his partner was right out of the question. Totally off-limits. On the other hand, he resented the idea that the steward might get a chance to share such intimacy with Bodie and he wouldn't.

They ate in silence.

After the meal, the crew came around and asked passengers to close the blinds so they could show the inflight movie, and handed out headsets to passengers who wanted them. As the cabin darkened, Doyle switched on his reading light. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, which still hung on a button on the back of the seat in front of him, he pulled out a book from the inside pocket. Taking full advantage of the superior leg room, he stretched out and began to read. Beside him, Bodie slouched down in his seat and closed his eyes.

It was about an hour later — Doyle had lost track of time — that he was distracted from his reading by Bodie getting up.

"Need some relief," his partner told him.

He grunted at his partner and turned his attention back to his book.

Twenty minutes later, Bodie hadn't returned. Doyle looked at his watch and then craned his neck round to see if he could see him. Well, he's probably chatting up the steward, Doyle decided, accepting the possibility of this, but extremely unhappy about it. He got up not, he told himself, to look for Bodie, but because he now needed the loo himself.

When he got there, he found both Business Class toilets unoccupied, and no sign of Bodie, or the steward. The stewardess who'd been serving on the other aisle was sitting on a crew seat in the galley, a meal tray balanced precariously on her lap as she delicately skewered a piece of boeuf bourginon with her fork. As Doyle walked by, she glanced up and looked vaguely grateful when it was clear that he wasn't stopping to ask her for a drink.

A few minutes later, he returned to his seat still puzzled over his missing partner. Maybe he's gone up to the cockpit, he wondered. He preferred that thought over the possibility the steward might be initiating his partner into the 'Mile High Club' somewhere. Personally, he couldn't think of anything more sordid than getting your rocks off with some stranger in a cramped and smelly aircraft toilet.

His thoughts were interrupted by a banging noise under his feet. Alarmed, he lifted them off the floor. There it was again — a banging noise coming from the cargo hold beneath him. Then, a scraping noise on the floor to his left drew his attention to a small hatch-shape on the floor directly in front of Bodie's seat. As he watched, a small latch began to move on the hatch. Doyle stared at it, holding his breath, his heart pounding.

What the fuck's going on? he wondered.

The latch opened up, revealing a hole the size of a 10p piece, through which a small, rolled-up piece of paper was pushed. Doyle glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the passengers in the vicinity were either absorbed in the film or asleep. Leaning forward in his seat, he picked up the paper and held it under his light.

It read: 'Help! I'm a baggage loader trapped in the cargo hold. Please tell the crew I'm here.'

Doyle let out the breath he was holding as he easily recognised Bodie's writing. How did Bodie know he was looking for him? Or was the timing coincidental? And how the hell had he got down there in the first place, for godsakes?

Leaning forward, he took hold of the safety instructions card to see if there were any clues. And there it was. Right beneath his and Bodie's seats was a galley located between the main cargo holds. The diagram showed the two lifts which he'd seen in the galley behind where they were sitting, which gave direct access to the under-floor galley. The diagram also depicted the hatch through which Bodie had pushed the note as an emergency exit from the galley - an alternative if the lifts didn't work - plus another exterior door down there, but without a chute.

Wouldn't need one that close to the ground, Doyle realised.

So, Bodie was down there with the steward. The thought made him feel acutely uncomfortable, an undefined emotion curling through his gut.

Refusing to acknowledge what he was feeling, he got out of his seat, determined to catch Bodie as he came out of the lift, showing him he hadn't been taken in for one moment by the practical joke.

Standing just behind the centre bulkhead which housed the lifts, he waited, looking for all the world as if he was just standing, stretching his legs. As he waited, he seethed. He didn't like practical jokes, especially if he was the butt of them, and to have Bodie and this fucking steward trying to make him look an idiot was just too much.

Doyle didn't have to wait long. One of the lift doors opened, and Bodie stepped out, followed by the steward. He watched as his partner crept stealthily forward towards their seat, with Pretty Boy right behind him.

When Bodie realised Doyle wasn't there, he turned to the steward with a gleeful grin. "Christ, he's actually fallen for it!"

From his semi-concealed position, Doyle walked up to them with the note in his hand. "You lookin' for this?" he asked quietly. Bodie had the grace to look guilty for a moment. This quickly turned to alarm as Doyle moved forward to well within the steward's personal space, forcing him to move closer to Bodie, who then got pushed up against their seat row. This left the steward sandwiched between them.

Doyle chose his words carefully. "I think it's time you stopped playin' with my partner," he said quietly but firmly.

The steward looked surprised. "Partner?" he almost squeaked, twisting around to look at Bodie.

Doyle stepped back, satisfied that the steward had misinterpreted the term precisely the way he had wanted him to. Doyle avoided looking directly at Bodie, as he wondered whether his partner would be really angry over his interference. But enough was enough and he wasn't going to take any more of this.

Having now the space to manoeuvre, the steward turned properly to look at Bodie, who was actually smiling and shaking his head at Doyle.

"Excuse me," the steward said and disappeared through the curtain into First Class.

Bodie put his hands up in a gesture of amnesty. "Ray," he pleaded, clearly recognising he wasn't off the hook just yet.

Doyle took his seat and waited for Bodie to sit down. "Yours, I think?" he said, handing Bodie the note.

Doyle watched as Bodie reached up and switched off his reading light, plunging them into a semi-darkness broken only by the flickering of the movie screen a few rows in front of them. With a jolt, he felt Bodie take his hand. The warmth from his partner's skin where it contacted his own seemed to burn into him. His mouth went dry, his heart rate increased. Bodie's thumb rubbed the back of his hand in a gentle caress, sending shivers through him. A small voice in the back of his mind wondered what Bodie was doing, and why he wasn't doing something to stop him. Why was Bodie affecting him like this? Doyle looked at his partner and met his steady gaze.

"Ray, I…"

Bodie snatched his hand away as the cabin lights suddenly came on full. Someone was shouting, another was screaming at the back end of the aircraft.

As one, they stood up, but before they could move, the First Class curtain moved. A dark man pushed their terrified-looking steward through, holding a gun to his temple.

People started talking at once. "No-one will be harmed if you do as we say," he announced to the cabin. "You!" he shouted at the two CI5 agents. "Sit down."

Bodie and Doyle immediately did as they were told. Bodie leant over him and opened up the blind, casting natural light into the cabin. At the back end of the aircraft they could still hear shouting, with one voice above the din yelling to the passengers to put their heads down. The hijacker in their cabin took up the call. "Everyone, heads on your knees. Now!" he shouted. "Or I will shoot him."

Bodie and Doyle bent over.

"I don't fuckin' believe this," Doyle whispered. "How many of 'em, do you reckon?"

"Dunno," Bodie whispered back. "At least four. This one looks like he could be an Arab."

"Two at the back, one in the cockpit and one here?" Doyle confirmed. "There must be more on an aeroplane this size."

"Don't try anything stupid, or we will shoot you," the hijacker shouted. "And don't talk."

"No-one will be hurt," came a voice from the cabin behind them, "if you follow our directions.

Over the public address system came the sound of someone blowing into the handset, testing it to see if it was live. "We are the Palestinian Freedom Movement. We are taking this aeroplane to Essukh…"

"Shit!" Bodie muttered.

"What?" Doyle wanted to know.

"Shhhh, listen. Tell you in a minute."

"…tell the world of the plight of the Palestinian people in exile, the people who want their country back. We will no longer be nomads, living like grateful animals in any country who will have us. Palestine will once more be whole and the people united. And the PFM will be the letters on everyone's lips.”

Doyle started silently to giggle. He wasn't sure whether it was hysteria or just his warped sense of humour. Bodie knocked him with his elbow, in a bid to stop him.

"The United Nations will recognise the PFM…"

Doyle was getting worse. He was almost choking in his bid not to laugh out loud and his eyes were filling with tears.

"…and they will say that we are a just and worthy cause. None of you will be harmed if you follow our orders. Do not try anything stupid or you will not live to see another day. I will speak to you again when we are near to our destination. Remember, PFM."

Doyle squeaked, his shoulders, his whole body shaking with the effort not to laugh.

"What's so fuckin' funny Doyle?" Bodie whispered urgently, his anger clear.

"PFM!" he replied, hardly able to contain himself.

"Yeah, and…?"

Bodie's less-than-amused look began to register. "Didn't you ever come across that acronym in the army?" Doyle asked with surprise. "PFM stands for Pure Fuckin' Magic! I can see this one goin' down a treat back at HQ!"

"Oh, Jesus!"

"PFM will be the letters on everyone's lips!" Doyle mimicked, reminding his partner of the words. "Can't see Angela Ripon bein' able to say that on the 9 o'clock news with a straight face."

"This is not good," said Bodie.

"What? PFM?"

"For fuck's sake, Doyle! Take this seriously. We're in a fucking hijack fer chrissakes! And they're taking us to Essukh."

"Essukh. One of those little Emirates. Didn't they break off diplomatic relations with the UK a few years ago over something? Whereabouts is it?"

"Sandwiched between Turkey and Iraq, and currently officially at war with Jordan and Syria over borders."

"And there's loads of Jordanians on…shit!" said Doyle as he remembered the VIP passenger in First Class.

"Yeah, shit is right. And that about sums up the security at Heathrow. If King Hussein doesn't get his son back in one piece, I don't want to even think what the consequences are going to be."

"Gawd, when Cowley finds out about this, he'll…"

"YOU!" shouted a voice beside them. At the same time, Doyle felt a sharp pain as a rifle barrel was pushed against his neck with bruising force. "NO TALKING!" In a slightly calmer voice, loud enough for everyone in their cabin to hear, the man continued, "You think we won't use guns when we're flying? Listen to this."

There was a crackling sound which Doyle immediately recognised with dismay.

"This is a stun gun. It sends a thousand volts of electricity through you and it's perfectly safe to use in the aeroplane. See how effective it is."

With that, there was a crackle followed by a high-pitched scream as he used it on the steward. Almost immediately, there was another scream from towards the back of the aircraft, where they were obviously doing a similar demonstration.

"Sit down and don't move," the hijacker told the steward, still crying in pain.

Doyle watched as the hijacker walked past them. It was important for them to be able to use all means possible to identify them. Memorising their footwear was a good start. This one was wearing tan shoes and beige flared trousers. They'd seen him at the start with the steward — about six foot, lean, and around 40. Black hair and moustache, brown eyes. Doyle memorised as many of his features as possible, in case they'd need it later. The hijacker's footsteps receded and then walked down the other aisle. Tan-shoes.

"Looks like they've got it in for Jamie — wonder if they're treating the rest of the crew like that."

Jamie? Must be the steward, Doyle realised.

"As I was about to say just now," Bodie continued in a whisper, "we've got size on our side."

"Eh? Why?" Size? What was Bodie on about?

"The Amman flight was supposed to be a 737. This Tristar's twice the size of the aircraft they thought they'd be on. I'll bet they haven't got enough people to do this properly."

Tan-shoes was coming back, so Doyle remained silent. It was something to think about though. Essukh — no chance of getting the SAS in. Bugger.

He cast his mind back to the moments just before the hijack began. Bodie was holding his hand and was about to say something. Something important, Doyle was sure. Had Bodie seen him telling Jamie to get lost as some sort of positive sign? He certainly hadn't been upset about it, which is what he had been expecting. Thank goodness Bodie hadn't had the chance to say anything before the hijack had started. Could've been embarrassing. Though he wasn't exactly trying to stop Bodie, he conceded. Why not? Maybe that was what he himself wanted.

No, he didn't, he decided almost without hesitation. What was he thinking of? Settling down with a bloke was not an option — he could never do it. For one thing, he liked birds too much to give them up. For another, he couldn't imagine spending the rest of his life with another bloke. They were good for one-night stands when he was feeling like something different. And that was it. Nothing else.

Shit, his back was beginning to ache in this position.

"Penny?" whispered Bodie. Tan-shoes was back patrolling the other aisle.

"Just thinkin' my back is breakin'."

"Yeah," agreed Bodie, turning his wrist to look at his watch. "And we've got at least another hour and a half before we get there."

Doyle shifted, trying to stretch his back a little.

"Head down!" Tan-shoes shouted. "And you!" Another hijacker arrived. Black boots and jeans.

"What's going on?" black-boots asked. His voice was softer, his accent English.

"I can't stay like this — I've got a back problem," said a man in the centre seats just ahead of them. "I'm in terrible pain."

"Down! Get down!" Tan-shoes shouted. There was a crackling noise.

"No!" the passenger pleaded, then shouted out in obvious pain.

"Don't!" black-boots yelled. The crackling stopped. "There's no need for that," he said more calmly.

Tan-shoes said something in Arabic.

"He's not a happy bunny," whispered Bodie. "He's just called the other one the Arabic equivalent of a mother-fucker."

"S'pose you learnt the swear words first."

"Naturally."

Doyle couldn't turn his head, but he could imagine the smug look on Bodie's face.

Half an hour later and he was certain his back had broken into two. Tan-shoes was back in the other aisle.

"I can't stay like this," someone was saying. "I'm in terrible pain."

"Let me show you terrible pain," Tan-shoes said and again used the stun gun. At that, another passenger suddenly stood up and from what Doyle could hear, made a lunge at the hijacker. A shot rang out followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

"Oh god," said Doyle as black-boots came running through, shouting in Arabic. An argument began but was stopped by a third man — Doyle couldn't see who.

"Christ, don't know how much longer I can take this."

"We would be touching down in Amman now. Can't say how much further Essukh is — depends on our route. Christ!"

"What?" asked Doyle, alarmed at the sound of Bodie's voice.

"Fuel."

Bodie couldn't say any more as Tan-shoes walked rapidly past them towards the front leaving black-boots to watch their cabin. The third man was still there. Doyle waited for him to walk past. Black trousers, black trainers. Black-trainers.

A moment later, the aircraft started to buffet as it went through turbulence. Black-trainers grabbed the back of their seat to steady himself and frustratingly, remained there. Doyle's mind working overtime, he wondered whether Tan-shoes was doing something up in the flight deck.

With Black-trainers standing so close to them, he couldn't question Bodie on his last comment about fuel. Maybe he was worried they wouldn't have enough to get to Essukh. Surely pilots carried spare. Doyle listened intently to the noise of the engines. They sounded all right. Must be OK.

Doyle's attention was diverted by shouting from the front. Tan-shoes, he decided, was definitely an unstable character and one to watch. Black-trainers went to the curtain.

"Fuel?" Doyle whispered the question.

"I'd say we're almost out. Feel that turbulence?"

"Yeah," Doyle replied, knowing from the tone of Bodie's voice he wasn't going to like what was coming next.

"Mountains. If I'm right, they're the Taurus mountains."

"Taurus? Where are they?"

"Turkey, Iraq. Take your pick."

Doyle tried to visualise a map of the area. They'd done enough training about the Middle East for him to know roughly where the different countries lay. Obviously not in as much detail as Bodie, who'd been there. Lived there.

"Bit out of the way…oh. Syria, right?"

"Yeah, can't take a direct flight path through Syrian airspace, so they've kept the flight path north, going over Iraq, I'll bet. But we won't make it."

As if on cue, the aircraft juddered and for some reason, Doyle knew that the rocking was the result of more than just turbulence. The nose pitched forwards.

"We're on our way down," said Bodie unnecessarily. "Get your seatbelt done up. Tight as you can."

Doyle did as he was told. Once again, the aircraft juddered and then, it all went quiet. The steady drone of the engines, until now a scarcely-noticed background noise, was suddenly and shockingly gone. All that was left was the eerie noise of wind whistling past as the aircraft hurtled in a steady, but downwards direction. The cabin lights flickered and went out.

At the back of the aircraft a woman began to scream and others joined in, shouting and crying. The shouting at the back increased and a shot rang out, followed by screams. Another shot and shouting from one of the hijackers.

"Fuck," said Bodie, "Hasn't anyone told them it's dangerous firing guns in pressurised cabins?"

Nearby, another man stood up, but Tan-shoes was just coming through the curtain and lunged at him with the stun gun. A tussle ensued and another shot was fired. Throughout the aircraft, it was mayhem, the hijackers struggling to maintain control.

The two CI5 men wisely kept their heads down. "Is this it, then?" Doyle asked, his mouth so dry his voice was hardly more than a croak. His heart-rate had rocketed.

"If anyone can control this thing, Pete can. He's a glider pilot — one of the best. Trained to take them silently in over enemy lines. Trouble is, not too many flat bits around here to put something this big down. He's going to try, though — that noise you can hear is the landing gear going down."

Doyle couldn't imagine anything less like a glider than two hundred tons of jet aircraft. Yet there was something in what Bodie was saying, as they weren't plummeting towards the earth as he would have supposed they would without engine power. He listened to the increased wind noise the undercarriage dropping out created, and felt the aircraft begin to buck. At the same time, he became aware that his ears were popping and the ambient temperature was beginning to drop noticeably. Not too many flat bits…

"You still don't fancy our chances though." Doyle wasn't sure why he was still whispering with such a commotion going on around them. More and more of the passengers were panicking and by the sounds of it, so were the hijackers.

"No."

Throughout the ordeal, Doyle had been sitting with his arms folded over his knees. No longer worried about the hijackers, he turned to look at his partner as they shared what was likely to be the last few minutes of their lives. Their eyes met and held. "At least it'll be quick."

Bodie pinched the end of his nose and blew to clear his ears. Doyle did the same and immediately, his hearing became more acute.

"Without the engines, we're losing cabin pressure and the air-conditioning's gone," Bodie explained.

"So why haven't the masks dropped?"

"They'll only do that if the cabin altitude reaches a certain point - we haven't got there yet and we may descend to below that point before it does."

"And straight into a mountain.

Bodie took his hand. "Do you mind if I…"

Doyle could hear Bodie's voice cracking as he trailed off into silence.

"No, 's all right," he said around the lump in his throat. He forced a small smile and when it was returned, he felt his chest begin to ache.

"Half of me is selfish enough to be glad you're here with me now," Bodie confessed. He looked down and continued, "But the other half…"

"Yeah?" Doyle encouraged when Bodie remained silent.

"The half that knows I'm in love with you, wishes you were somewhere safe."

Christ! Doyle was shocked into silence. That was the absolute last thing he imagined Bodie would say to him. He didn't know what to say. Whatever answer he gave would sound trite. Bodie, in love with him. He'd never have guessed.

"You weren't expecting that," Bodie said, his voice flat, still not looking at him.

"To be honest, no," he confessed.

Doyle wondered at the absurdity of the situation, being on an aeroplane that was about to crash, having this conversation with his working partner, who also happened, he realised suddenly, to be his best friend. The whole thing had a surreal quality, like a strange dream. Only he knew with absolute certainty that this was real.

Bodie was in love with him. He wondered if he said it to himself a few times, whether he could believe it, could believe Bodie had actually said it to him. Which reminded him…

"What about Jamie?"

"Was just trying to make you jealous, wasn't I?" Bodie grinned.

"Jealous?"

"And it worked, didn't it?"

Doyle thought back to the earlier part of the flight. Yes, he conceded to himself. It had. He hadn't put a word to the unnamed emotion he had felt as Bodie had flirted and then disappeared with the steward. But his actions when they had returned had certainly left the young man convinced they were lovers and he'd made no effort to disabuse him of the notion.

Doyle looked at his partner; really looked at him. Almost of its own volition, his hand moved up to run his fingers through Bodie's hair. The bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle and he realised he was definitely getting that look, but with an openness and intensity he'd never before seen. The look convinced Doyle, in a way Bodie's words never could, that his partner, his best friend, had been speaking the truth. Bodie loved him. And they were about to die together. The ache in his chest grew at the injustice of it all.

And suddenly, as if until now he'd been looking at the world through a misted window, it magically turned transparent, as it all became crystal clear to him. For months he'd sought out Bodie's companionship even after they'd finished a long day's work. He enjoyed his company, fretted for him when he was in danger, took risks to ensure he kept him safe. If that wasn't love — then what was? Yes, he loved Bodie too and it was important that he say it, before it was too late.

Doyle ran his thumb over Bodie's lips. "Yeah, you're right, I was jealous. Too dense to realise until now that I love you too."

Under his thumb, Bodie's lips lifted into a face-splitting grin.

But Doyle couldn't share his partner's apparent joy. All he could feel was a deep, abiding sadness. "Why did it take something like this to make me recognise what I feel for you, Bodie?"

"Doesn't matter Ray, so long as I know." There was a serenity about Bodie now, an aura of calm acceptance, of being at peace with the world.

Over and above all the shouting, someone near them started screaming. "We're going to crash! We're going to crash!" Around them, the shouting and crying intensified.

Doyle looked up at the window to see it filled with nothing but sheer rock-face impossibly close to them, and was amazed the right wing hadn't hit it.

"Brace yourself," Bodie shouted above the din of passengers shouting.

Doyle wondered what the point was, but still clutching Bodie's hand, he did as he was told. A moment later, he felt the nose lift up and then suddenly with a sickening lurch, the undercarriage made contact with something solid. Doyle scrunched his eyes tightly shut, his body tensed for the final impact. They were in the air again. A few seconds later, beneath them, he felt the wheels smash onto the ground and stay there as the huge aircraft slewed left then right and then left again. The only reason he wasn't on the floor was his seatbelt, which was cutting deeply into his pelvis. They didn't seem to be slowing down and Doyle was all too aware that they could still crash into something. Clearly everyone else believed it too, as the screaming hadn't lessened and Bodie's grip on his hand was almost vice-like.

It seemed to Doyle as if they were rolling along the ground forever. When would it end? Seconds, minutes, a lifetime, and then he realised they had slowed down considerably. If they hit anything now — other than a precipice — they'd make it. He felt elated.

An enormous cheer went up throughout the plane. Doyle started to sit up, wanting to hug Bodie tight. They'd survived. They were alive.

A shot was fired, then another. The cheers turned to screams and the hijackers began to shout, threatening to kill people. Another shot was fired.

"Got to go, Ray, while everyone's still recovering. Have to set the beacon off so they'll find us — without power, the flight deck transponder won't be working."

"What?" said Doyle, uncomprehending. He grabbed hold of Bodie's hand as his partner stood in a crouch.

"Bodie?"

"The door. Have to open it to set the escape chute off – there’s an emergency locator transmitter on it. Remember the hatch. I'll be waiting."

With a final squeeze to his hand, Bodie released it and ran forward. As Doyle watched, he ran straight into one of the hijackers — Tan-shoes — but before he could do anything Bodie made full use of a combination of his weight and forward momentum to push him out of the way before disappearing through the First Class curtain. As the hijacker began to shout the alarm and pursue him, Jamie, still sitting in the first row of the Business Class cabin, put his foot out and tripped him up. The man went flying into the curtain, pulling it from its hooks and taking it down with him.

Doyle heard rather than saw a door opening at the front. Several shots were fired and there was a lot of commotion. Fighting off the orange curtain material, Tan-shoes gained his feet and was running forward, shouting in Arabic.

Had Bodie made it? Doyle craned his neck to see what was going on as an icy draught blew into the cabin through the open doorway. There was still lots of shouting at the front, but he couldn't hear his partner. Something made him sit up and look out the window.

Bodie! He was down there, standing in the snow waving up at him gleefully. For a moment he felt euphoric. Then, as Bodie ran under the aircraft, he started to think straight. Where was he going to go? They were in the middle of nowhere, snow all around them, the sun was setting and all he had on was a shirt. No way would he survive the night.

Bodie was possibly going to die in a bid to save everyone else. By deploying the chute and setting off the emergency beacon, search and rescue would have a chance of finding them. Doyle knew, from his police training, that the beacons transmitted on both civil and military frequencies, which meant amongst other things, spy satellites and reconnaissance aircraft could pick them up. In this part of the world, he realised with some consternation, they were the only things that were likely to.

Doyle began to shiver, and leaning forward, grabbed his coat. As he was putting it on, Tan-shoes reappeared, gun in hand. At first he thought the hijacker was going to go for Jamie, but he walked straight past. Perhaps he hadn't realised it was the steward who had caused his fall.

So why had Bodie taken such a risk running forward, when they had a door immediately behind them? Before he had time to think of an answer, the passengers in the front cabin were being herded into their cabin, all of them of Arab appearance. They numbered only three — two men in their 30s, Doyle estimated, and a young man. They had to be Hussein's son and his bodyguards. Tan-shoes went forward and grabbing Jamie, pulled him out of the seat he'd been in since the hijacker had put him there earlier.

"You. Over there," he said, pointing at the seat Bodie had vacated. He spoke Arabic to the three men. Whatever he said, one of them didn't like it and spat into his face. Tan-shoes pistol-whipped him, sending him to the ground.

Looking up he addressed the cabin. "If anyone tries anything, the next one will be shot." Then he hauled the bodyguard up and slinging him into a nearby seat, indicated where the others were to sit.

Doyle looked at Jamie — the young man was white as a sheet and shivering. Intuitively he knew that the steward's short-sleeved shirt was only part of the reason why he was shaking. He was frightened. Frightened for his life.

The temperature in the cabin was dropping fast and so was the amount of light. Another hour or so and it would be pitch black. How would the hijackers cope then? Not that anyone was going anywhere. Nowhere to escape to.

Bodie. He tried to think why he had gone to the front door — there must have been a reason. Remember the hatch. What did he…? Bloody hell — of course. He glanced at the floor. The escape hatch for the under-floor galley, right there, by his feet. And there was an exterior exit down there. He could get out under cover of darkness. I'll be waiting.

It began to make sense, now. If Bodie had gone out of the door behind them, the hijackers would likely have moved him, as they had the prince and his guards. So assuming he could use the cover of darkness to go down through the hatch, what would he and Bodie do once he was out? Where could they go? For some reason he couldn't fathom, he was certain Bodie had a plan. One that Bodie hadn't had time to tell him. But he'd have to get to his partner soon, before the effects of hypothermia became irreversible.

There was nothing he could do for at least an hour, he estimated. He'd just have to hope that he'd be allowed to stay sitting there. Leaning forward, he pulled out the safety instructions card and studied the position and operation of the under-floor galley door. By his reckoning, it was almost directly beneath him.

He cast his mind back to those last minutes before they crash-landed, to Bodie's declaration and his own answer. If he was honest, he was still gobsmacked Bodie loved him, and even more so that he had finally come to realise that he loved Bodie. And what about the dream he'd had in the Executive Lounge — was it only earlier that day? He must have unconsciously picked up his partner's signals and his own psyche had obviously tried to give him a message. It had taken a near catastrophe for him to recognise what he felt for his partner.

Whilst he'd been attracted to Bodie the first moment he'd set eyes on him, at first he'd also felt an overriding antipathy towards the ex-mercenary, allowing his prejudice to dictate his feelings. But as Bodie had begun to show his true colours — to show himself to be a man of integrity and honour — Doyle's impression of his partner, which he'd based on Bodie's background, had been blown out of the water. From that time on, Bodie had got under his skin.

For Doyle this truth, coupled with his physical attraction to Bodie, had threatened their partnership. It occurred to him that for the sake of his sanity, having to work with him day in and day out, he must have buried his true feelings so deeply, it had taken being on the brink of death for him to admit what he felt to himself and to Bodie.

Doyle was brought back to the present by Tan-shoes shouting at someone. The man needed the toilet, which was fair enough.

"Let him go," shouted Black-boots from the front of the other cabin.

"I can't watch him and the cabin," Tan-shoes protested.

"Get Aswar — he's not needed in the front now you've moved everyone out. But first, get him to move these bodies."

Doyle watched the dynamics of the two carefully. First, the fact they spoke in English probably meant that one couldn't speak Arabic, and since he'd heard Tan-shoes speaking it, it must be Black-boots who couldn't. Yet Black-boots had some kind of power over Tan-shoes, judging by the way he spoke to him. He was also a lot less volatile than Tan-shoes.

Aswar appeared at the curtain and Doyle automatically sized him up. Unlike Tan-shoes and Black-boots who were both tall and lean, he was quite short, but powerfully-built. After a short talk with Tan-shoes, he began dragging the dead passengers towards the open door. Several were brought down from the back too, one down his aisle. As Aswar pulled the body past, Doyle noticed Aswar was the one he'd known as Black-trainers. In all, Doyle counted eight bodies, all male.

Once this task was done, Aswar was kept busy with the toilet line, as it seemed virtually everyone put their hand up asking to go. Having been shortly before all this had started, Doyle was fine.

The cabin was darkening quickly now and Doyle wondered what they were going to do when it got too dark to see. He soon got his answer.

A man he'd not seen before appeared at the front of his cabin on the other aisle, a megaphone in his hand.

"It will soon be night. Do not think this is an opportunity to try to take over. We will shoot anyone who tries to attack us. There is nowhere for you to go — if anyone escapes, they will die of cold very quickly — one has already tried this and he will not live to see tomorrow. At dawn, Iraqi planes will rescue us, and the Palestinian Freedom Movement and our cause will be world-famous. Long live Palestine!"

So, they were in Iraqi territory. That was bad. And they hadn't mentioned what they intended to do with Hussein's son, if anything.

As darkness descended, so did an uneasy peace, broken only by the occasional sound of a child crying. Tan-shoes had, to Doyle's relief, settled down beside the door on the other aisle. Very gently, he touched Jamie and felt him jump. Pulling the steward towards him, at first he met resistance. Jamie must have had second thoughts, as he suddenly capitulated.

Doyle felt his face, looking for his ear and then put his mouth to it. "I want you to listen carefully," he whispered, "as I'm going to need your help."

He felt Jamie nod.

"Bodie and I are CI5. He's already escaped and set off the beacon. I've got to follow him and the only way is by going through this hatch to your under-floor galley. Can you help me open it and replace it once I'm through?"

"OK," Jamie whispered back. "What are you going to do once you're out? Try to find your friend?"

"Yes. I have to find him." Doyle began to move forward to get into a kneeling position, but a surprisingly strong grip from Jamie stopped him.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Jamie whispered. "Nothing happened, you know…"

Despite all that was going on, Doyle felt a flood of relief sweep over him at the solemn confession.

Doyle put his hand on Jamie's, where it rested on his arm, and squeezed in thanks. He started to move, but again, Jamie stopped him.

"Take this with you," the steward said and pulled the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders to stave off the cold. "He'll need it more than I do."

Doyle gratefully took the offering, not daring to think how badly Bodie was faring out there, wherever he was. His mind was brought back to his task by a clicking noise, loud in the darkness, as Jamie fumbled for the hatch lock.

"Excuse me," Jamie suddenly said out loud. Doyle's mouth went dry, his heart thumping in his chest as he wondered in panic what the steward was intending to do.

"I need the toilet," Jamie called and began to get up. There was a clatter as he fell to the floor somewhere in the galley area. "Oh, my ankle, I think I've broken it." He stayed on the floor groaning loudly.

This was Doyle's chance, while there was all the commotion. Leaning forward, he realised Jamie had got the hatch open for him and had partially pulled it from its position. Gently, he lifted it as Jamie continued to proclaim, loudly, about the pain he was in. From the sound of it, Black-boots was in attendance, trying to calm him down. 

Doyle placed the hatch in the aisle and dropping the blanket down, climbed through it, his feet moving around to find something below to stand on. They came into contact with a small ledge. As soon as he'd steadied himself, he reached out and pulled the hatch back into position then carefully, sat on the ledge and lowered himself to the floor. Above him, he could still hear Jamie's muffled voice.

Feeling around for the blanket, he found several trolleys had come loose from their stowages, probably during the landing, and were now lying on their sides on the floor. Finding the blanket, he started to feel along the right hand wall and realised that the ledge he'd stepped onto was attached to the actual emergency exit. There was no way he was going to get it open without the hijackers realising and they'd likely guess that Jamie's actions were a diversion. That would put his life in danger. Doyle's conscience wouldn't allow that — he'd wait ten minutes and then make his move. Bodie would have to wait a little bit longer.

He tried to work out how long it had been since Bodie had gone — an hour and a half at most. Maybe he'd find himself a cave to shelter in, or something similar. At least his partner had had the ultimate in survival training — no-one bettered the SAS in that and he knew it.

Doyle counted slowly. As he got near to the end, he began to feel for the handle and hoped that, like the main deck doors, it wouldn't need electrical power to open. The handle was recessed and freezing to the touch — an indication of how cold it was out there. He pulled up and with a loud noise, it sprung open upwards bringing in an icy chill. Above him, there was shouting and the lift door in the upper galley opened. But the lifts needed power, of that he was certain.

Putting the blanket around his neck, he sat on the door sill, and turning, lowered himself to the ground. His feet hit the snow and sunk in about a six inches — not as bad as he'd expected. It was probably pure glacier below that.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his penknife, and putting it close to the ground, switched on the mini torch. He quickly found Bodie's footsteps from where he'd waved up to him, and began to follow them. To his surprise, they ended only a few feet away beside the nose gear, yet his partner was nowhere to be seen.

"Bodie," he called quietly. "Bodie!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Ray, up h-h-here," came a weak voice. Relief suffused him, a warmth stealing over him at the knowledge that his partner was still alive. Doyle ran his torch up the nose gear and noticed rungs on the nose-wheel leg which Bodie must have used to climb up and in. Of course, he'd have learnt that in his anti-hijack training. How apt, he thought as he began to climb up.

"H-h-here," Bodie called. Doyle swung his torch round once he was up and saw Bodie lying in a foetal position inside the wheel bay. Scampering across the floor, he knelt beside Bodie, pulling him into a sitting position and into his arms. He was absolutely freezing and shivering uncontrollably in his thin shirt. Without hesitation, he took off his jacket and put it on Bodie, pulling the blanket he'd brought around his and Bodie's shoulders.

They silently clung to each other, and after a few minutes, Doyle realised that Bodie's shivering wasn't getting any better. They were already in a huddle position of sorts, but it was clear Bodie needed him to share more of his body warmth.

"Lie down, an' I'll lie on top of you," said Doyle. "See if that'll help."

"You p-p-pick the s-s-strangest time and p-p-place mate," Bodie replied slowly, despite the shaking, amusement audible in his voice. Once they were comfortable, Doyle pulled the blanket up to cover his back and arms.

Bodie seemed unable to control his shivering and Doyle was alarmed at how cold he felt to the touch — not just his extremities, but his torso too. He wrapped his arms around his partner, trying to surround him as much as possible, and rested his head at the juncture of his partner’s shoulder and neck.

"This is n-n-nice."

"Shut up and get warm," Doyle said indulgently. It took all his concentration to remain in place with all Bodie's shaking.

"Your b-b-breath feels w-w-warm on my n-n-neck."

Doyle inhaled the pleasant scent of Bodie's aftershave — he'd always liked that particular one. What was its name? He should remember, because he'd gone out and bought some for himself…ah yes, Eau Sauvage. They lay there in silence for a while and it was with some relief that Doyle noted a lessening in the intensity of Bodie's shivering.

Some while later, Doyle's wandering mind was brought back to the present when he felt Bodie's head turn to plant small kisses on his ear as his hand stroked up and down his back.

"What you doin'?"

"Enjoying myself," Bodie said, a smile in his voice.

That Bodie was apparently taking the whole situation so lightly, angered Doyle, who pushed himself up and away from Bodie's lips. It was frustrating that in the pitch blackness, he couldn't see a thing. "Bloody hell Bodie, can't you take anythin' seriously? If I hadn't been able to get out when I did — maybe if it had taken another hour or two — you'd've been dead. An' it would have been my fault."

Doyle felt Bodie's cold hands cup his face.

"But you did get here, and I'm still alive," he whispered. "We still might not survive long enough to get rescued, so I'm going to take advantage of every minute I've got with you. Don't begrudge me that, now I know how you feel about me."

"Don't start doin' emotional blackmail on me, Bodie," Doyle warned, his voice hard. "Just because I told you I love you doesn't mean I would ever do anythin' about it."

"But you have slept with men, haven't you?" Bodie asked, a note of certainty in his voice.

Doyle was puzzled by this, since they'd never talked about it. "Yeah, I've slept with blokes, but only ever slept with each one once — I've never gone back a second time. Only do that with birds."

"Why only with birds?" Bodie asked, puzzlement evident in his voice.

"Because I prefer 'em to men. Like the feel of 'em, like their company, everything."

"So why bother going with blokes at all?"

Doyle noticed the stroking had stopped, though the shivering hadn't. Feeling guilty at depriving his partner of much-needed body warmth, he lay back down on Bodie, but tried to maintain a semblance of distance by propping his head on his left hand. "I go with blokes just as a change; something different. Like if you always eat savoury food, but sometimes get a craving for something sweet. Once you've had it, the craving goes away for a while."

"And you don't have a craving now, or don't you fancy me?" Bodie asked quietly.

"Look, I don't want to screw up our partnership with a one-night stand, an' it wouldn't be anything more with you, because I don't do that; like I said, never have done. Don't take it personally."

"An' what if there isn't any more partnership because we die tonight?"

"Don't be so fuckin' morbid."

"I'm being realistic, mate. Who knows where we are? And even if anyone did know our location, can they get to us in time?"

"We're in Iraq, know that much. As to us bein' rescued, thought that was why you took the risk droppin' the chute, so the beacon would be set off."

"If it works, if they find us in time, if, if…"

Rarely had he heard Bodie sound so negative. The fact that he was half frozen to death — that Bodie would have died had it taken him much longer to get there — might account for it. The hand propping up his head ached. With a quiet sigh, he dropped his head back onto Bodie's shoulder.

So, what should he do? If he assumed they wouldn't get rescued before hypothermia got them, should he grant a dying man his wish? It wouldn't be so hard, since it was something he himself had fantasised about for long enough. The thought of experiencing it for real, just the once, was very tempting.

His main concern was what would happen if they did survive — certainly the odds weren't good, but there was that possibility And any involvement would surely affect their future partnership — it was inconceivable that it wouldn't. His main worry was Bodie possibly resenting his refusal to take it any further.

And what would it do to him? Lying here in his arms was a man he cared for — loved — more than any other man he'd known. If they did anything and survived to be rescued, he wondered if he could go back to just being partners and friends. It was a question he realised he was totally unable to answer.

He loved Bodie, that much was true. Loved his physical appearance, loved his personality, loved the man. What was he thinking? They were in the middle of a serious situation and he was contemplating having sex with Bodie when they should be trying to do something positive.

“Now we’re out here,” Doyle said firmly, “what do we do next?”

He felt Bodie’s chest shudder as he laughed. “Not capable of anything much, right now, Sunshine. What I need is warming up, quick – and personally, I can’t think of a quicker way than…”

Doyle felt Bodie thrust up with his hips. And all at once, he became conscious of the hard body beneath him, not just as a body but as an instrument of pleasure. Their groins were pressed close and it was with some surprise he realised he was hard. He was amazed that he hadn't even noticed until now.

He felt Bodie's hands clutch his buttocks to pull him closer, felt his head turn to place kisses in his hair. Almost without conscious volition, Doyle moved so that their lips met in the lightest of touches. The tentative action was repeated and this time they lingered. Doyle could smell the champagne on Bodie's breath. His hand stroked through Bodie's thick hair, its slightly wiry texture so different from his own soft curls.

Doyle sucked on Bodie's pouty lips, taking the lower one into his mouth and running his tongue along it. They were as soft as his fantasies had imagined. With satisfaction, he felt a tremor go through Bodie that had nothing to do with the cold. He opened his mouth and engulfed the lips, gently prising them apart with his searching tongue, as he thrust his hard cock against his lover. The kiss was tender and sweet, embodying the feelings the two men had for each other.

Bodie groaned into his mouth and opened wider, allowing Doyle access to his tongue. The tips touched, twirled, stabbed and explored, the taste, the texture a thousand times better than any of his fantasies.

With a thrill, he began to feel an answering hardness as he undulated against Bodie. Their hard cocks pressed together through layers of clothing. He felt Bodie press a finger against the seam of his jeans to push it between his buttocks, exerting pressure against his anus and sending a thrill coursing through his body.

Despite the cold, he was hot and could feel sweat beading on his forehead. As his breathing increased, he deepened the kiss, speeding up his thrusts, pushing their pricks together, feeling the delicious sensation of Bodie's finger against his crack, the tension building in his balls.

Bodie was panting into his mouth and Doyle knew they were both close. Regret filled him that the darkness that enshrouded them would prevent him from seeing Bodie's face as he climaxed.

He humped harder, faster, his lips open wide as he devoured Bodie's mouth, his tongue. The tension built in his groin, almost an ache, his arse sensitive to the pressure of Bodie's fingers, and then he felt Bodie push his pelvis up hard against him and come with a deep and satisfied groan into his mouth. Doyle could almost imagine feeling Bodie's cock twitching as it spurted, the thought pushing him over the edge so that he too was coming, a glorious throbbing, pulsating release.

Enervated, he lay slumped over Bodie and it took a minute to realise his partner was no longer shivering. Leaning up, he placed a gentle kiss on Bodie's lips. "You all right?"

"Didn't think I'd ever feel hot again," his partner replied, a replete tone to his voice, his fingers carding Doyle's hair affectionately.

It was true — he could feel the warmth of Bodie's body beneath him. A laugh escaped him at their whole predicament. "Fancy recommending this to the Cow as a cure for hypothermia?"

"Nah, why should I steal your thunder?"

Doyle lay back down to ensure Bodie stayed warm. Around them all was silence save for their panting breaths, which gradually slowed to a more normal pace.

"Feel up to tackling the hijackers yet?" Bodie asked after a few minutes.

"How?"

"There's a way into the cargo hold from here through a pressure blow-out panel…"

"A what…?"

They're panels designed to give way in a decompression — there's one between each of the cargo holds. Stops the aeroplane coming apart at the seams…"

"Oh," Doyle muttered, glad his partner seemed to know his stuff.

"Our guns are on the other side of this bulkhead," continued Bodie, as he tapped against the metal wall next to them. "We might even find the bodyguards' weapons too. At the other end of that hold there's another blow-out panel which leads directly into the under-floor galley. From there we can get back into the cabin through the hatch that was by our seats."

"Just like that?" Doyle asked, not really believing it could be that simple.

"Well, it won't be easy but we might be able to get Pete to help us. Was he still in the flight deck?"

"Think so. It was too dark to see much by the time I got away."

"Much as I hate to move, it's time for us to earn our keep and start pushing our odds of survival in the right direction."

Doyle realised he was as reluctant to move as Bodie, and the thought bothered him. An attachment to his partner was out of the question. He mustn't let it happen — he'd never allowed himself to get close to another man and he wasn't about to start now.

As he pushed himself up and off Bodie, the cold hit his front with force. He winced as the wet patch on his jeans made itself felt, cooling more rapidly than the area around it. Wrapping the blanket more tightly around him as he knelt, he didn't dare move in case he fell through the undercarriage hatch he knew to be close by.

Doyle sensed his partner moving away from him.

"Got to be careful," said Bodie, his voice indicating he was concentrating hard, "but if I get around the other side of this wheel-well, I should be directly under the cockpit."

As Doyle waited, he began to shiver and a smile stole over his face at the thought that Bodie might soon have to revive him if he took much longer. His thoughts were interrupted by Bodie tapping on the ceiling.

"What you doin'?" he whispered.

"That code, remember?" Bodie answered. "I'm telling Pete we're down here. If he's up there, he'll hear it."

Bodie stopped and there was silence for a moment before a tapping noise was returned.

"That's it!" said Bodie excitedly. "He'll be here in a minute."

"Right," Doyle said doubtfully.

They stood and waited, Doyle's shivering increasing in intensity, for what seemed to him like ages, but was probably no more than five minutes. He wished he was wearing the jacket he'd given Bodie.

Suddenly, there was a thump, some scraping and a few moments later, shouting in Arabic could be clearly heard followed by two gun-shots.

"Shit!" said Bodie. "Just remembered you've got a torch. Where is it?"

"In the right-hand pocket," Doyle answered.

A moment later and there was some small illumination which Bodie directed down the gear leg.

"Hi, what took you so long?" Pete asked casually as he climbed up, a grin on his face.

"Sorry, got waylaid," Bodie answered and it was all Doyle could do not to choke.

"I assume we're going in through the blow-out panels," Pete said matter-of-factly, apparently oblivious to the by-play between the two CI5 men. "Couldn't find a screwdriver at such short notice. You got anything we could use?"

"Only this," said Bodie holding up the penknife. "Won't be easy to unscrew the panels with the torch pointing in the opposite direction."

"Let's get started," Pete said briskly. "Take it in turns."

The three men moved to the rear of the wheel-well, where Bodie shone the torch across the bulkhead. "There you are," he said, as the light revealed a panel which, unlike the others, was in place with screws rather than rivets.

Pete, whose hands were least numb, started off.

"So," said Bodie, "did we get down safely by luck, or by judgement?"

"Bit of both," the pilot answered honestly. "We're in Wadi Al Farouk. It's a valley that's been carved by a massive glacier through these mountains half a mile wide in some places and about ten miles long. I wasn't sure if we'd get to it, though. As soon as the engines cut, John handed me the controls — he knows my background. Not many skippers would do that; he's a good bloke — one of the best. I had to keep this thing high enough to get over the mountains at the western end, which wasn't easy. Got a bit hairy at one point when the hijacker in the cockpit started to panic. He tried to get the controls off me."

"How did you stop him?" Doyle asked, impressed at Pete's flying abilities. It seemed Bodie was right to have faith in him.

"Told him in Arabic that it was the will of Allah that I flew the plane and He'd decide if we lived or died. He left me alone after that."

"Can't have been easy controlling this thing once the engines cut," said Bodie.

"No, it wasn't. Apart from keeping us in the air, the engines power a lot of important things, so when they stop, we're in trouble in more ways than the obvious one. In cars, when the engine's off, the power steering and brakes don't work — it's the same on an aeroplane. The controls we use to manoeuvre it were hardly responding — the ailerons, used for turning, were an absolute bugger to move. It took John and me working together to move the control column — my shoulders and arms are still aching from it. But we needed them for the final turn into the Wadi — couldn't have done it without them."

"Sounds like you had your work cut out for you," Bodie commented. "How did you get the thing to slow down?"

"We just about had enough hydraulic pressure to extend the flaps, which helped, and dropping the undercarriage gave us extra much-needed drag. The rest, as they say, is history." Throughout the explanation, Pete's voice was very steady — not a hint of a self-congratulatory tone.

"Yeah, well that was a nice bit of flying, mate," Bodie said clapping his hand onto Pete's shoulder. "Told Ray here you're the best."

"Ow," Pete said with a small laugh. "Told you I'm tender."

"What made them think we'd get to Essukh OK?" Doyle asked.

"They didn't consider that flying to an Emirate which has cut off diplomatic relations with virtually all its neighbours would mean we wouldn't be allowed to fly into their air space without being shot out of the sky. So, because we couldn't fly over Israel, Jordan, or Syria, the only route left to us was a northerly track over Turkey and Iraq, which put miles onto the journey. I tried to tell them we didn't have a hope in hell of getting there with the fuel we had, but they didn't believe me until the engines cut out." Pete grinned and added, "and when they did, all hell broke loose."

"I'll bet," said Bodie grinning.

"I can tell you now, it certainly concentrates the mind," Pete said and trailed off into silence as he continued to unscrew the panel. None of the screws were very long and designed to shear under any pressure.

Doyle spent the time mulling over what they needed to do next and what their chances of success were. As he did this, he realised there was important information missing from his equation and asked the question at the forefront of his mind. "Any idea how many hijackers there are?"

"I've just been trying to work it out," said Pete. "I've only seen three of them in the cockpit and one of them referred to a fourth one at the back — they didn't know I could understand. How about you?"

"We've seen three," Bodie answered. "Black boots and jeans, black trousers and trainers, and the main one our way had cream trousers and brown…"

"Tan," Doyle interrupted.

"Tan shoes."

"Right, I've seen them, plus the one who stayed in the flight deck the whole time — brown trousers and black shoes. So that's four. What about down the back?"

"Want me to take that over?" Doyle asked, noticing Pete's movements had slowed.

"Yes, thanks."

The three men shuffled around as Bodie answered Pete's question. "Didn't see anyone else where we were, but I'd say there was probably at least one more."

"Yeah, sometimes there were two of them in our cabin," agreed Doyle. "That would have left only one for the rest of the aircraft — can't see them doin' that."

"So five of them. You reckon that's it?" Pete asked, doubt in his voice.

"Considering they were expecting this to be a 737," said Bodie, "five would have been more than enough."

"Good point," Pete conceded. "And how the hell did they get their gear on the aircraft? I thought security at Heathrow was pretty tight."

"Yeah, but not tight enough," added Bodie.

"There was some kind of security alert at the airport today," Doyle reminded his partner. "A couple of security people mentioned it - the bloke who took us to the lounge thought we were part of some team investigating a security scare…"

"…and that police officer said something too…" finished Bodie. "Still doesn't explain how they got all those guns in, though."

"Working at the airport," said Pete, "I've realised there are all sorts of holes in the security system. It's not that hard if you know how. The turnover of airport staff is phenomenal and the checks on job applicants isn't as thorough as it could be. Half of them are immigrants where it's almost impossible to run proper checks on them."

The three men fell silent, each contemplating the task ahead of them. In all, it took them twenty minutes to complete the job, each taking it in turns while the others tried to keep their fingers from going completely numb with cold. On the two occasions that Pete was working, Bodie stood pressed against Doyle's back, the sharing of body warmth welcome. Doyle refused to acknowledge any other feelings the proximity gave him.

He worked on the last few screws and then, as quietly as possible, they moved the hatch away to reveal a black hole into the forward cargo hold.

"After you," Bodie said to Doyle.

"Give us the torch then." Their fingers brushed as Bodie passed it to him.

Doyle shone the torch around the small hold, the weak beam picking out haphazard shapes — apparently the force of the landing had dislodged a lot of the loose baggage from their restraining nets.

The three men climbed through and stood as Doyle cast the beam around, trying to find Bodie's bag. Bodie was right in a way they hadn't dreamed of, in that it wouldn't be difficult to pick it out from all the others. Sure enough, they found the bright orange holdall in minutes and were once more in possession of their firearms. Holding his own gun once more gave Doyle a feeling of being in control for the first time since the start of the hijack.

Behind them, Pete was scrabbling around opening bags.

"What you doin'?" asked Doyle.

"Trying to find something warm to put on. Someone must have jumpers or coats in their baggage."

After a few minutes, all three men were kitted out in much warmer clothing, though Doyle had yet to feel the benefits, his core body temperature having dropped several degrees.

Above their heads, they occasionally heard the footsteps of someone walking up and down the aisle. In between, there was silence.

"Can I have the torch?" Pete asked. "I want to find the prince's luggage. If we can get into it, his bodyguards brought their own arsenal."

Pete began to work through the bags. Because of the faint, narrow beam, neither Bodie nor Doyle were able to help, so they stood to one side, watching. Once again, Bodie moved behind Doyle and pushing himself against him, wrapped his arms around his waist. Doyle didn't resist — in fact he placed his arms over Bodie's. Neither did he acknowledge the sudden physical changes to his metabolism while they stood like this.

"Eureka," Pete called after a few minutes searching. Over in one corner were several brown trunks and cases with the Louis Vitton logo on them. With them were two aluminium boxes the size of large briefcases. Bodie and Doyle joined him as he tried the locks.

"Careless, very careless," said Pete happily. The locks opened at the push of a button.

Doyle let out a low whistle as the torch picked out the contents.

"This'll come in handy," Pete said as he pulled out one of the guns and screwed a silencer to it.

"Bloody hell," Doyle exclaimed, "what do they need a silencer for?"

"Dunno, but lets be thankful it's there," replied Bodie.

Pete took a second gun and, putting it into the pocket of the jacket he borrowed, filled the other pocket with several bullet clips before standing up. "Now I'm ready for anything. Right, how are we going to do this?"

"There are two ways out of the galley," Bodie told Doyle. "One's through the hatch you used and the other's through a hatch in the roof of the lift cubicle, but that'll only work if the lift is down."

"Trouble is," said Pete, "there's no way from the galley of telling whether the lift door at the top is open — if it was, as we climbed up, they'd spot us immediately."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, "and I'd be willing to bet they think that's how I escaped, so they're probably watching it in case I come back."

"OK, so it's the cabin hatch then?"

"Right," Bodie agreed.

"If all three of us can get into the cabin under cover of darkness," Pete continued, "we'll need to take each one out without the others knowing."

As he said these words, Doyle noticed the tone of Pete's voice had changed and hardened. No longer Pete the friendly pilot, but Pete the SAS-trained killer.

Bodie continued on the same train of thought as Pete. "Yeah — if they suss us out, they'll open fire on the passengers and we'll end up with a bloodbath. You've got the silencer on your gun and I can use Ray's penknife — lucky for me, he keeps it sharp."

That Bodie had had the same type of training as Pete made Doyle shiver involuntarily. While he'd always known that and accepted it in a way he'd never been accepting of Bodie's mercenary days, now that he was faced with it he felt once again as if he didn't know his partner at all, even though they had just made love… That thought gave him pause as he recognised it hadn't been just sex.

Forcing his mind back to the matter in hand, he mentally compared the training he himself had received both in the Met and with CI5. Yes he was trained to kill, but until now during his first year in CI5 he'd been able to keep to his code of ethics which only allowed him to kill in self-defence. Pete and Bodie were both basically trained assassins and he knew if they got back up into the aircraft cabin, that neither of the two ex-SAS soldiers would be taking prisoners. He also knew that suggesting anything to the contrary would be futile.

Did they expect him to do what they were prepared to do? he wondered. He would kill in cold blood if it meant the difference between life and death; if it meant saving the lives of innocent passengers; if it meant, he realised, that it would help keep Bodie alive. Better to ask now what was expected of him, than assume. "What about me? What do you want me to do?"

Pete remained silent, apparently understanding that this was something to be resolved between the two CI5 partners.

"Ray?" Bodie said his name as a question and in it, Doyle comprehended what his partner was asking of him. They understood each other well enough that Bodie knew no more needed to be said. One word, yet so much had been said and accepted. Doyle wished he could see Bodie's face, his eyes. They told him so much.

"I'll do what I have to do," Doyle said firmly. "Just tell me what to do."

"We'll need to sweep the aircraft, " explained Bodie. "If Pete takes out the one nearest the hatch…"

Pete nodded in agreement.

"…you can start in the cockpit and work back along the left-hand aisle, while I go to the back and work forward along the right-hand aisle."

"Are you going to be able to find your way down there in pitch black?" Doyle wondered aloud.

"Remember I counted 22 rows to the next doors when we first got on, and it's around another ten to the back doors. I reckon there'll be one hijacker by each set of doors — I just need to go carefully to make sure I don't alert them. OK?"

"OK," Doyle agreed.

"You going to be all right?" Bodie asked. Doyle now felt so in-tune with Bodie, that he knew the question came not from any lack of faith in his abilities, but out of a genuine concern that he'd never had to kill in cold blood before.

"Yeah. It's got to be done."

Turning back to the task ahead of them, the three men began climbing over the bags towards the rear of the hold, and locating the second blow-out panel, they again took turns unscrewing it.

"I've forgotten to tell you about the little ace I've got up my sleeve," said Pete after a few minutes.

"Yeah?" Bodie asked.

"Did you notice when the engines cut, we didn't switch over to the emergency battery? It's normally armed to come on automatically with power failure, but I disabled it. When all this is over, we'll have 20 minutes of emergency battery to use the R/T and let the world know exactly where we are."

"You," said Bodie, a light note in his voice, "are a genius."

"You're too kind."

The increased insulation from the extra clothes allowed them to work faster than before, and within ten minutes they were almost there.

With a thought that someone might be on the other side, they removed the last few screws carefully and dislodging the panel, pulled it slightly to one side. The under-floor galley was pitch black and empty, the wide-open door through which Doyle had escaped allowing in an ice-chilled breeze. That no-one had come down to close it was perhaps significant.

"You reckon they couldn't afford one of their men to come down here and shut it?" Doyle whispered, giving voice to his thoughts.

"Could be," Pete conceded.

Climbing through, they carefully picked their way across, clambering silently over fallen trolleys and catering boxes. Blasts of freezing air whipped around the galley, cutting through their layers of clothing.

"Any cans of drink around?" Bodie asked.

Doyle leant forward and opened up the nearest trolley to find it full of used meal trays. He tried another and then another with no luck.

Pete was trying some further over and softly said, "There's stuff in here."

Doyle hadn't realised how thirsty he was until he knocked back a miniature can of coke. After drinking several in quick succession, he got the giggles as he tried to stifle the need to burp and instead hiccuped. The strangulated noise he made had Bodie sniggering too.

Standing under the hatch, Bodie looked up. "I'll go first, but I'll need a hand to get up."

Doyle felt his heart rate increase at those words. He knew it was dangerous and wished it was Pete going first.

"The shelf I stood on is on that door — no good to us now that's it's open."

"I'll give you a bunk up," said Pete.

"What if they've moved someone to that seat and they raise the alarm?" Doyle asked, trying not to sound worried for his partner.

Bodie shrugged. "It's a risk I'll have to take. Come on, Pete."

"OK — turn the torch off."

As they were thrown into pitch darkness, Doyle heard Bodie climb onto Pete's back and, worried about his balance, held onto his partner's hips to steady him. He felt Bodie's warmth through his trousers, and for a moment he felt Bodie's hand linger lightly on the back of his, then move to ruffle affectionately through his curls.

Though he could see nothing, he knew Bodie was opening the hatch very slowly and managed it in almost perfect silence. There couldn't have been anyone there, Doyle realised. Still clutching Bodie's hips, he felt him pull himself up. His turn now. A very quiet click of his fingers told him Bodie had dropped his arm through the hatch to help him. He put his hand up, and Bodie caught him in his grasp and held tight as he climbed onto Pete's back.

A few seconds later, he was kneeling between Bodie and the hatch. Both their seats were empty, he noted, and for a moment he wondered where Jamie was.

Although it was very dark in the cabin, it wasn't pitch black. Very little light was coming in through the windows, but enough for Doyle to catch sight of the silhouette of someone walking up the other aisle towards the lifts. Bodie had seen it too and leaned over him towards the hatch to tap something lightly to warn Pete about the danger.

Despite the fact that they'd been squashed together before on the odd occasion they'd got themselves into a tight spot, for the first time Doyle was acutely aware of the proximity of Bodie, who was plastered over his back.

"Come here often?" Bodie whispered into his ear.

This comment struck Doyle as funny and he silently began to laugh, his body shuddering. Whoever it was on the other aisle, they went into the galley and stayed there. Doyle took his gun from its holster, its solid familiarity a comfort to him. Feeling in control, no longer a hostage, a sense of calm descended on him.

At the back of the aircraft, a baby began to cry, breaking the eerie silence. Bodie gave it a few minutes and then tapped something out. A moment later, Pete was pulling himself through the hatch. There wasn't really enough room for the three of them, Doyle having pinned Bodie to the wall. Very carefully, Pete moved the hatch back into position, which gave them more room to manoeuvre. Bodie leant around Doyle to tell him about the person they'd just seen in the galley and a moment later, Pete was gone.

Bodie leant in very close to Doyle's ear. "Good luck, sunshine. And be careful, all right? Don't take any unnecessary risks."

Doyle twisted around to reply and felt Bodie run a finger gently down his cheek. "Watch yourself, too," Doyle said, and before he had time to worry about what he had to next, he stepped into the aisle and began silently to crawl forward.

If any of the hostages were awake and aware of him, none said anything. Continuing down the aisle, the First Class cabin appeared to be empty, a bitterly cold breeze blowing through the door Bodie had opened. Doyle was willing to bet the hijackers were unaware that attached to the deployed chute was a beacon signalling their whereabouts to anyone who'd listen.

As Doyle reached the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the galley, he smelt a waft of strong cigarette smoke. He was just a few feet from one of the hijackers. Trouble was, he couldn't tell exactly where he was or which direction he was facing. Flattening himself against the bulkhead, he held his gun to his shoulder and then thought better of it. If he was going to do this properly without raising the alarm, he wouldn't be able to use the gun. No way did he want to endanger Bodie's life. He spared a thought for his partner making his way towards the rear of the aircraft, and mentally crossed his fingers for him.

Holstering his gun, he bided his time and waited.

Later, Doyle would be unable to recall exactly what had happened, as though his mind refused to allow him to dwell on it. The man he killed — Tan-shoes — had murdered innocent people, and had shown himself to be brutal and sadistic. His violent life had abruptly ended when Doyle had snapped his neck, breaking it in the text-book manoeuvre he'd learnt as part of his CI5 training, but never thought he'd need to use. To Doyle, there was something deeply repugnant about killing someone with his bare hands, and he took little comfort from the fact that the man was himself a killer. That his actions had helped keep Bodie alive provided him with the only solace he'd allow himself. It was enough to provide him with the balance needed to deal with the aftermath of the episode.

Doyle dragged the body to the door and chucked it down the chute, to join the others the man had himself help put there. Gingerly creeping forward, it was with some relief that he found the cockpit empty. So, where are the other flight crew? he wondered. He was certain that the two shots fired right after Pete's escape had been outside, probably through the window the pilot had escaped through. So there was a fair chance John and Don were still alive and had simply been seated somewhere in one of the cabins.

His job up there completed, Doyle knew he'd have to start heading towards the back, and hoped that neither Pete nor Bodie would mistake him for one of the hijackers. Once more clutching his gun, he slowly crawled back along the other aisle. At the next set of doors, he found two bodies still warm, and no sign of Pete. He must have gone to give Bodie a hand, he decided. So, should he join them, or wait here? Worried his presence might cause confusion, he decided it would be best to stay put for a few minutes to see what happened. He was in no doubt that the two ex-SAS men could look after themselves.

He was right — only a few minutes later, he could see the vague outline of two men walking down aisle and recognised one immediately as being Bodie. As they neared, he could see the other was Pete. So, was that it?

He walked over to the right-hand door and leant against it, waiting.

"You OK?" Bodie asked, his voice concerned.

"Yeah, fine." Doyle knew immediately that his voice betrayed him. Pete probably wouldn't notice, but Bodie would.

"Where…?" Simple mathematics told them there was at least one unaccounted for.

"Broke his neck and chucked him down the chute," Doyle said, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice. "Tan-shoes."

Bodie took Doyle's upper arm in a light grip, offering silent comfort. But Doyle didn't want it and shrugged out of his grasp. "Don't," he warned and realised he felt angry; very angry, though he didn't know why.

Bodie seemed to accept it. "It's all over," he said quietly.

"I'm off to power up the emergency battery and start radioing for help," said Pete. "Can I leave you two to start sorting things out here?"

"Yeah. We'll need to get rid of the hijackers’ bodies. Best do it while it's dark."

"Now?" Pete asked.

"After the battery gives out," Doyle suggested. "Most of this lot don't know it's over yet — it might get hairy draggin' dead bodies through the cabin now. They won't know us from Adam — might think we're the hijackers an' start a riot."

"Good point," Pete conceded.

Doyle wondered what had happened to the hijackers at the back — he didn't really want to know what Bodie had done to 'take them out' as Pete had so clinically put it.

He'd been right in his assessment of the passengers' understanding of the situation. The three men had been so efficient in the ending of the crisis that no-one was sure it was over until the emergency lights suddenly flickered to life. For a few moments everyone was blinded and an uproar ensued until Pete's voice came over the public address system explaining what had happened. A deafening cheer went up and Bodie and Doyle suddenly found themselves surrounded by people clapping them on their back and congratulating them.

After a few minutes, the cabin crew appeared and began coaxing everyone back to their seats. Then the captain's voice came over to explain that they were only going to have power for the next 20 minutes and that they were doing everything they could to get them rescued. After that, they would have to sit tight and wait.

Bodie and Doyle helped the cabin crew get all the emergency packs together by the open door, as they contained flares and other location and survival equipment to help attract the attention of would-be rescuers. Some cabin crew formed a chain and passed up clean blankets through the hatch from the under-floor galley, which had been stowed in the forward cargo hold for the return journey. As they were distributed, others searched for soft drinks and anything that was edible and found a surprising amount. Doyle was amazed how much they accomplished in those precious 20 minutes before the lights flickered out.

The cabin crew continued to make periodic communication via megaphones to keep up morale, and using water-activated torches from the emergency packs, were able to patrol the cabin regularly to reassure the survivors that all was going to be well.

Three of the stewards, including Jamie, volunteered to help the two CI5 men dispose of the hijackers' bodies, which they did, quickly and efficiently, as soon as the emergency battery power went.

A short while after that task had been completed, Jamie approached Bodie. "Pete asked if you'd go up to see him," he said, and glancing at Doyle, gave him a nervous smile.

The two CI5 men headed forward to find the three flight crew sitting in the same positions they'd last seen them.

"We've made contact," said Pete as they walked through the door. "The Jordanian Air Force are on standby — search and rescue will be here for first light. I was wondering whether your R/Ts might help when they get close."

"We could try it," said Bodie. "We've only got one and it's still in the hold. Shouldn't take long to find it though," he added.

"Don here's about to have a go hand-cranking the forward door closed. It'll take an hour or so, but I think it'll make a difference in the temperature. We've got a couple of passengers willing to help him."

"Will you need to get rid of the chute?" Bodie asked.

"Shouldn't do," said Don. "If it does look like it's going to be a problem, it's a pretty straight-forward job disengaging it from the aircraft."

Borrowing one of the emergency torches, the two men returned to where they'd sat for the ill-fated flight and clambered through the floor hatch. Down there, they found someone had closed the exterior door and the galley was in a much tidier condition than when they'd last seen it.

Doyle was on his way towards the access panel to the cargo hold when he was brought up short by Bodie holding on to one arm.

"Ray…" he whispered.

Doyle turned to face his partner and was pulled into Bodie's arms. Not returning the embrace, he stood there limply.

"Don't, Ray…I need this."

"You need this? What about what I need, eh Bodie? Or doesn't that count?"

Bodie seemed surprised at the vehemence in his voice and pulled back from the embrace. "What do you need then?"

"I need space," Doyle began and demonstrated it by pulling completely away from Bodie's loose hold. "An' I need time to think. What I don't need is you stiflin' me. I already told you there's not goin' to be anythin' between us. It's not my thing — not what I want out of life, so don't try to pressure me." He turned towards the panel and then spun around again, causing his partner to collide into him. Jabbing a finger into Bodie's chest, he added, "An' don't go tryin' to lay any guilt trips on me — I've got enough to last me a fuckin' lifetime as it is."

Clutching the torch, Doyle clambered through the panel and stomped around in the general area he'd seen Bodie retrieve their guns, sweeping the beam around in search of the day-glow orange bag.

Finding it, he fell to his knees and rifled around inside. A moment later, Bodie joined him.

"Sorry," Bodie said quietly.

"Jesus, Bodie! Can you try not to sound like a kid who’s just had someone half-inch his last Rolo?"

Bodie opened his mouth, looking like he was going to apologise again and then, seeming to think better of it, remained silent.

In the depths of Doyle's mind, his conscience twinged and told him he was being unfair to Bodie, but he was angry at a lot of things and in no mood to be fair. Now that they were out of danger, he was desperate to get back what they had before all this madness started; desperate to forget what it had felt like to be in Bodie's arms, to be kissed by him, made love to by him.

Back in the cabin, Don was making good progress with the door. There was no way to increase the cabin temperature, but removing the wind-chill factor would help.

For the first time since it had all begun, Doyle looked at his watch and was amazed it was only a little after midnight. Translated, it was around 2am local time — four hours to dawn and rescue.

On the flight deck, John and Pete were in quiet conversation as they entered. Not sure what else to do, the two CI5 men sat down and a moment later, the door opened to reveal the Jordanian prince. With an English accent that revealed his British public school education, he quietly thanked the three rescuers personally. Before leaving, he also hinted that they'd be receiving some sort of reward for bringing about an end to the hijack. With another quiet but sincere thank you, he left.

"Nice boy," said John once the door had closed.

"You two look all-in," Pete remarked.

Doyle wasn't about to argue. After all the excitement and adrenaline, he felt as if someone had pulled his plug out. "Yeah, feel knackered," he agreed.

"Why don't you grab some shut-eye on one of the First Class seats," Pete suggested. "We'll wake you when the cavalry arrive."

The thought was very tempting. There wasn't much they could do now anyway, so why not? "Bodie?" Doyle asked.

"Yeah, sounds good. We'll leave this with you," he said and handed over the R/T. "See if you can get it working on their frequency. And remember," Bodie added with a grin, "it's the property of HMS Government, so don't break it, or Cowley'll deduct the cost out of our meagre pay."

"He wouldn't!" Pete said, scandalised.

"Would!" Bodie and Doyle said simultaneously. All five men laughed at that, the tension finally breaking.

The First Class seats reclined almost to a horizontal position and with the help of a couple of blankets, the two CI5 agents managed to get four clear hours sleep. Jamie woke them just as the sky began to change from black to a deep blue. Doyle peered out the window. At some point, the cloud cover had gone to allow an almost full moon to shine down, reflecting off the white snow and turning the landscape into something resembling a science-fiction film set. All around, mountains towered up, as though benignly standing guard over them. Yet, they could so easily have been the instrument of their deaths. The thought made Doyle shiver.

"Penny?" Bodie asked.

"Eh…oh, nothin'. Come on. Let's see how long we've got."

The familiar thump, thump, thump of helicopter rotor blades made the two men hasten to the flight deck. As they opened the door, an icy blast hit them.

"Ah, just in time," said Pete, turning to greet them. Next to him, John was holding an ignited flare out of his side window. "The radio's working OK — the only problem is that they're going to have to airlift everyone out and then over the Syrian border, which'll probably take all day."

"Women and children first?" Bodie asked with a grin.

"Actually, they want the prince in the first batch — they'll take him straight to Amman. And you two are to accompany him, you lucky bastards!" Pete added.

"Surely we should stay here to help," said Doyle, surprised at the suggestion.

"Apparently, the Foreign Minister's been in touch with King Hussein to relay orders direct from someone by the name of…guess who?"

"Cowley," said Bodie with certainty.

"Bloody hell, is there anywhere he can't find us?" Doyle asked, genuinely amazed at the strings their Controller was able to pull.

"Don't worry about leaving us behind," Pete assured, "they're parachuting troops in to help with the operation. They should be here any time."

"I'm not comfortable about going out before the injured and families with kids," Doyle said uneasily.

"Things are different in the Arab world," Bodie explained. "Different set of values. Don't worry about it, Ray."

"Anyway, they won't be able to start on that lot until daybreak," Pete added. "Best to get the prince out of here now before there's an international incident."


	4. Chapter 4

Half an hour later, Doyle was pulled into the helicopter, where two men helped him out of the winch. He had tears in his eyes.

"You all right?" Doyle heard Bodie shout above the noise.

"No I'm not!"

Bodie looked alarmed.

"Fuckin' strop cut me in two," Doyle continued and pulled at the crotch of his jeans in the hope of relieving some of the pain. He saw Bodie wincing in sympathy. Taking a seat increased the discomfort, but it was preferable to being thrown around the small cabin — everyone else had wisely strapped in.

As the door was closed, the noise mercifully lessened and the helicopter took off upwards. Above them, the sky was varying shades of purple and pink as the sun rose over a new day. Before long, the air currents thrown up by the mountains buffeted the small craft, and without any windows to look out of, he was left feeling decidedly queasy. It didn't help that his stomach was empty. A black coffee would really hit the spot.

Doyle was amazed by the speed at which everything had happened. To get out of the aircraft, they'd had to deploy another chute, as opening the door they'd cranked shut would have taken time. Since no-one was seated at the front, they'd opted for the forward right-hand door to keep the draughts as far away from the waiting passengers as possible. The slide had been steep and his descent less than controlled, although unlike one of the bodyguards, he'd managed not to land on his arse.

It still being too dark to land safely, the helicopter pilot had hovered as the prince, his two bodyguards, and the two agents were winched up, all within 20 minutes of arriving. They were being taken to a small Syrian airstrip where a jet from King Hussein's private fleet was waiting to take them on to Amman.

The contrast between the utilitarian rescue helicopter and the opulence of the king's Lear jet was marked. Inside they were greeted by a steward who showed them to their places. Doyle would not have described them as seats; more like wide, well-cushioned armchairs, arranged in groups of four with a table between.

The first thing they did after boarding was to shed some of the layers of clothing they had donned to fend off the cold. Doyle was particularly pleased as the sweater he'd pulled out of someone's luggage in the dark hold had turned out to be in a rather vile brown and beige zigzag pattern. Bodie, on the other hand, had managed to pick a nice pale cream-coloured arran jumper which looked good on him.

As they stripped off the layers, the steward politely took it all and stuffed it into a plastic bag in the galley. Everyone took their places, the prince choosing to sit by the cockpit, his two guards at the rear of the aircraft, just behind where the two agents were making themselves comfortable.

Minutes later, the door was shut and they taxied towards the runway. As soon as they were airborne, Doyle watched in disgust as his partner tucked into a distinctly unhealthy-looking breakfast with great gusto. He himself stuck to his original choice of black coffee which helped to settle his stomach. After that, he was able to face a couple of bread rolls and some cooked meat.

"How's your er…" Bodie gave Doyle's crotch a significant look.

"I'll live." In fact, his balls still ached. He knew from his training that men were supposed to get the strop just so, but the winchman had begun lifting before he was ready. Once he was dangling, there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth and bear it.

"Not permanently damaged then?" his partner asked with a leer.

"Shut it, Bodie," Doyle said through clenched teeth.

And Bodie did. It was an equal combination of relief and annoyance when a closed expression appeared on his partner's face. He'd seen that look a few times and only once before had he himself caused it. That had been back on that first day they'd met and he'd left his partner-to-be in no doubt what he thought about his mercenary past.

Fuck. He really didn't need the bastard doing this to him right now.

A strained silence reigned throughout the one-hour flight. When they arrived in Amman, two navy Rolls Royces, complete with police car and motorcycle escort, were waiting to take them directly from the aircraft to the palace. It occurred to Doyle as they began their journey that if he wasn't feeling so pissed off, he'd have really enjoyed the VIP treatment.

The car was very spacious inside and included a carphone, miniature TV, and bar. The men each sat by a window, the gulf between them physical as well as metaphorical. With nothing else to do, Doyle stared glumly out of the window.

After leaving the airport, the motorcade turned onto a motorway and drove through sandy-coloured hills, with the occasional clump of grass or stunted tree breaking up the monotony. Before long, they were on the outskirts of the city and the road narrowed and got busier. The hills didn't lessen, and white and gold-coloured box-shaped buildings began to appear, perched on them in ever-increasing density until the hills became invisible under houses and apartment blocks.

As they neared the city centre, the pavements seemed to teem with people, mostly, Doyle noticed, in western clothing, though most of the women covered their heads in large scarves. As they passed by, people stopped to stare, probably wondering which VIPs were in the cars. The shaded windows, however, afforded the occupants privacy.

All the street signs were in Arabic, although some of the larger ones had English translations written underneath. The roads were packed with cars, trucks, and buses with little or no lane discipline, and a favourite pastime for bored drivers stuck in traffic was to lean on the horn, creating a cacophony of noise. When they were close to their destination, Doyle noticed the main thoroughfare they were on was Prince Hassan Street. From the little Cowley had given them about the country, he knew it to be the name of the King's brother, and heir to the Jordanian throne.

Atop one hill to their right, Doyle saw a magnificent mosque, its walls built from alternating rows of white and black stone, giving it a striking stripe effect, its minarets stretching up into the bright blue sky.

Having got caught up in the morning rush-hour, it took nearly as long to get to the palace as it had flying from Syria to Jordan. Eventually, they arrived at their destination, and swept through the palace gates. Doyle stared at the enormous building, its walls the colour of sand, the architecture having a definite Arabic feel to it, with its distinctive arched windows and columns. In front of the two huge mahogany doors stood a row of soldiers in what looked to Doyle to be black, flared, knee-length dresses with epaulettes, worn over white shirts. Jack-boots and black cossack-looking hats with the King's crown emblem in the centre topped the costumes off. Each man had a ceremonial sword hanging at the front and Doyle was willing to bet they knew how to use it.

"That's the King's Circassian Guard," said Bodie quietly. "Hussein's equivalent of Liz's Household Guard."

Well, at least Bodie was still talking to him, he thought with more than a little relief. He was really beginning to feel out of his depth — at least Bodie should know the score, having lived here before.

As soon as they got out, Doyle watched as the prince was whisked off by some grey-suited men. Several others, smiling, approached them, their hands outstretched. The first one to reach them spoke.

"I am Mahmoud, King Hussein's private secretary. The King wishes to extend to you the facilities of his home in thanks for the life of his son. He regrets he cannot greet you in person, but he says you are both most welcome in his home. I am to show you to your rooms."

The two men were led in, finding themselves in a large galleried hall of granite and marble with a large bubbling fountain at its centre. The balcony of the upper level was lined with an intricately-carved dark wood lattice. Left alone with Mahmoud, Doyle tried to concentrate on the route he led them on, but their walk took them along so many corridors and stairs that he decided Perseus himself would have had trouble retracing their steps. The only thing he was certain of was that they were back on the ground floor.

Eventually, Mahmoud opened a door onto a palatial living room, off of which were several doors. "You will be staying at the palace during your visit to Jordan," he told them. "It is the King's wish. He regrets he has pressing engagements today but has made time in his schedule tomorrow to speak with you and to give you his thanks. Let me show you your apartment."

Mahmoud opened each door, showing them a dining room, a library/study and several luxurious bedrooms. "You have no clothes. I have called for the King's tailor — he will be here shortly, then you can rest. If you need anything, please use the telephone."

"Would it be possible for us to speak to Major Cowley?" Doyle asked. "We're supposed to be picking up Robert Gardiner to extradite him to England. Our boss will want us back as soon as possible."

"You need not worry — all this has been taken care of. You are the King's guests and he has asked for your stay in Jordan to be extended so that you may see some of his kingdom. All that Major Cowley has requested is a report of the hijack — your government is asking many questions."

"I'll bet," said Bodie under his breath.

"A report? Now?" Doyle wasn't sure why he was surprised.

"You may dictate it to me," suggested Mahmoud, "and I will telex it to him — rest assured King Hussein has a secure line to Britain."

"Sounds good," said Bodie. "I could get used to this."

Doyle dropped onto one of the two overstuffed sofas that faced each other across a large glass coffee table. Bodie sat on the other, but before they could speak, the secretary returned from the study with a pad of paper. He sat expectantly at the other end of Doyle's sofa, with pen poised.

"How shall we do this?" Doyle asked.

"You talk, and I'll add any bits you missed out, OK?" Bodie suggested.

Fifteen minutes later, the report was completed.

"I will send this now."

Doyle looked at Mahmoud dubiously. "And that's it? We don't have to go straight back to England?"

"The King has many friends in your government. He has asked that you stay, and they have agreed."

Blimey, thought Doyle. Bet the Cow loved being told that.

"Is there anything else?"

Doyle again glanced at Bodie who shrugged. "Not that we can think of, thanks."

"Then I will go."

Once alone, the two men regarded each other warily, until a huge yawn took hold of Doyle. Bodie cocked his head to one side and raising his crooked eyebrow, allowed a slow smile to steal across his face.

"Feel as if I haven't washed in a week," said Doyle mournfully.

Bodie sniffed the air. "Smell like it too. They'll probably want to stay upwind of us until we…" He was cut short by a gentle knock on the main door.

"That was quick. Come in," Doyle called.

A small, elderly man entered. "My name Farouk, King's tailor. You wanting clothes?" He smiled at them expectantly and Doyle wondered how much English he understood. In one hand the tailor held a tape-measure, in the other, a foot measure, and under his arm, a book.

"Any chance of some jeans?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"Jeans. Yes," the man nodded enthusiastically. "You wanting Gucci? Armani?"

"Got any Levis or Wranglers?" he asked, and loftily ignored the look on the tailor's face at the suggestion.

"If it your wish. I will measure."

"I'm a 30 inch waist, 32 inside leg."

"I will measure," he said again, this time more firmly. "Your shoes — off."

Suit yourself, Doyle thought. If he was the tailor, he wouldn't want to get within ten feet of him right now.

Once done, he measured up an acquiescent Bodie. "You wanting jeans?" he asked.

"No, not me mate. Liked the sound of the Gucci or Armani though," Bodie said with a smile. "Got any nice suits?"

The old man nodded enthusastically, then kneeling in front of them, proceeded to measure their feet. As he opened the book he'd brought, Doyle realised it was a catalogue from which the tailor was able to offer them a choice from a wide selection of footwear. With relief, he was glad to see there were plenty of western styles — he really couldn't see himself in sandals, somehow.

Once he'd finished making notes, the tailor stood up. "I return later. Mahmoud say you sleep now?"

"Yeah, probably," agreed Bodie.

As the door shut on the tailor, Bodie clapped his hands together. "But first, a bath. Reckon each bedroom'll have one."

Doyle slumped back down on the couch, his mind emptying fast. He was brought back to the present with a jolt as Bodie shouted with glee from one of the rooms. A moment later, his head appeared around a door. "Ray — come and take a look at this!" he said excitedly.

"What?" asked Doyle, in no mood to get up.

"Come and see for yourself."

Doyle reluctantly got up, knowing he was going to have to anyway, even if it was just to drag himself to the nearest bed. Following Bodie through the door, he passed through a bedroom and into the largest bathroom he had ever seen. In fact, he could fit half his current flat into it.

Tiled in black and white marble, it had a shower cubicle at one end that could easily take three people. Next to it stood a toilet and bidet. Along the adjacent wall to the left was a white marble shelf, out of which were carved two sinks, their taps glinting gold against the black marble splash-back. The shelf ended at a large floor-to-ceiling arched window, which stood partially open, allowing in the warm autumn air. A gauze curtain which hung in front of it gently billowed in the breeze, as diffused sunlight spilled through it, so allowing in light, yet providing privacy. But the focal point of the room lay along the opposite wall. It was a large, sunken bath — Doyle estimated at least eight feet long and four feet wide, with steps at one end and taps at the other, which were already running. Along the inside of the bath, outlets revealed it was also a Jacuzzi. The thought of the churning water massaging his tired body made Doyle tingle. A shelf on the wall just above the bath housed an array of soaps, and numerous bottles of bathing toiletries, while at the near end of the bath, several large, fluffy white towels were folded over a heated rail.

"Wow," was all he could bring himself to say.

"Yeah," said Bodie in agreement as he removed his shirt. "Where you going?" he suddenly asked as Doyle walked out.

"Gonna find my own one," he replied.

It took Doyle about two minutes to realise that the bathroom Bodie was in belonged to the master bedroom, since the other two were nowhere near as plush or as inviting. What to do? He was tempted just to crawl into bed, but he knew after his nap he'd regret it. He felt dirty and itchy and generally uncomfortable. The fact that his underpants were crusted onto him thanks to what they'd done the night before didn't help much.

He looked at the bath he was standing next to and knew what he wanted was to climb into Bodie's Jacuzzi. But on the other hand, he didn't want to give his partner false hopes. Bloody hell, he realised with some resentment, two days ago, he wouldn't have been facing this problem — he'd've just climbed in without a thought.

He sighed. Well, if he made it clear to Bodie that he hadn't changed his mind, that should do it. Looking around his own bathroom, he found a selection of wet and dry shavers, none of which looked as though they'd been used. Selecting one, he gave himself a much-needed shave. Further searching in one of several wall cabinets produced an array of still-boxed toothbrushes, one of which he made immediate and grateful use of. Finally, relieving himself, he undressed and donned a large navy robe he found hanging on a hook in one corner of the bathroom.

"Seems like you picked the biggest bath," Doyle said as he sauntered in. Bodie, who was lying on his back, his head resting on one of the steps as the bath gradually filled up, smiled up at him.

"So, I'm gettin' in, but only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself. I told you that last night was it — a one-off, an' I meant it," he said firmly.

That wiped the smile off Bodie's face, he thought with some satisfaction. Not even Bodie got everything his own way.

Doyle removed the robe, and sitting on the edge of the bath at the opposite end to Bodie, slid in. He knew Bodie's eyes were on him, taking in the sight of him, and if he wanted to torment himself with something he couldn't have, Doyle thought, that was his problem. As far as he was concerned, he was just going to ignore him.

The water was a perfect temperature as it washed over his tired body. Pulling himself around, he glanced at the toiletry bottles and selected some pine and citrus-scented crystals which he poured into the water. As the crystals dissolved, they turned the water a pale yellow.

He knew his every move was being watched and deeply resented it. "Fer cryin' out loud," Doyle said eventually, his raised voice echoing around the bathroom, "will you stop starin' at me like that."

Bodie sat up abruptly, sending waves of water in Doyle's direction. "What am I supposed to do, Ray?" he retorted angrily. "I can't just switch off my feelings like you apparently can."

"An' just what's that supposed to mean?"

"Last night you told me you love me and we made love together. Today you're looking at me as though I was something nasty you just stepped on in the street."

"Last night I thought we were goin' to die," said Doyle by way of explanation.

Bodie leaned forward. "You didn't mean it then?" he asked quietly.

Doyle's eyes dropped under the intense gaze, aware that his heart was pounding. "Yeah, I meant it. But I don't want to do anythin' more about it."

"Why not?"

Two simple, three-lettered words. And so hard to answer. It wasn't easy putting his thoughts, his feelings into words which would be meaningful. He could go on about how it would affect their partnership, maybe ruin it, or how it might affect their judgement at work. But that wasn't really it. How to explain a lifetime of habit? Hopes and aspirations? Family obligations and expectations? How to say all that and more without it sounding like a poor excuse?

"Who are you, Bodie?" he asked instead. "Do I really know you?"

"What do you want to know?"

Doyle ignored the question. "I don't know anythin' about you. About your history, your family. About anythin' before you joined CI5."

"What are you saying, Ray? That if you knew about my past that it might change your mind about us?"

Doyle couldn't ignore the hope in his partner's voice. "No," he answered, knowing he sounded unsure. "What I think I'm sayin' is that what I feel for you isn't necessarily grounded in reality. I only have an image of you based on what I know of you — an' I get the feelin' what I know is just the tip of a bloody big iceberg. How can you ask me to change a fundamental part of myself — take such a risk, on something which might not be real?"

"You think," Bodie said slowly, clearly working it out as he talked, "that if I told you about how I was brought up, and the things I've done since leaving home, that it might change the way you feel about me? Make me more real for you?"

It sounded unlikely, and Doyle knew it. He knew that Bodie was a man of integrity, a man of strong principles, a good sense of what was right and wrong. No, he knew at that precise moment, that whatever he found out about his partner, he'd still feel the same way about him. And that was because his gut instinct told him he already knew the real Bodie.

He couldn't admit that to him, though. He feared what Bodie was offering — what he wanted — and tried to explain why. "I always imagined I'd get married one day, start a family."

If Bodie was surprised at his change of subject, he didn't show it. "Is that what you really want? You?" The incredulity in Bodie's voice was clear.

"Yeah, why not?" Doyle said defensively.

"So, why choose a job like ours then? Why not go for something safe where you've got the time to go out with someone and get to know them long enough to settle down? A job which isn't in danger of leaving your children fatherless?"

The words hurt him. But then deep down, he knew it was the truth. "Thought I'd do all that when I'd had enough of CI5." It was a lame excuse and both of them knew it.

"Right," said Bodie and sliding back down into the water he closed his eyes, effectively ending the discussion.

Doyle sighed with relief. He was too tired for verbal sparring. Deep down, he knew this discussion wasn't over yet.

Searching around, it took only a moment to find the Jacuzzi controls, which lay in a neat row next to a flexible shower attachment. Hitting the 'on' button, he too lay back and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the wonderful sensations.

For some time, his mind drifted, content to enjoy the physical sensations, the relaxation engendered in him by the churning water as it washed over his tired body, apparently quite oblivious of its paradoxically arousing effect. He was unable to tell whether it was the thought that triggered the body, or the body which triggered the thought, but the memory of what he and Bodie had shared together the previous night flooded through his mind at the same time that he became aware that his hand was wrapped around his achingly hard cock.

His eyes snapped open to find Bodie watching him and he glanced away guiltily, wondering if Bodie knew. Probably not, he decided, as the swirling water would probably hide any evidence. Then again, what else could his right hand have been doing under the water?

What he wanted, right then, was to get out of the bath and away from Bodie, but he couldn't without his arousal being observed. He found himself feeling self-conscious about it, which irritated him. Why had Bodie gone and changed things between them? They'd each seen the other with morning hard-ons before and had simply taken the piss at the time — it had been harmless fun. Or had it? He had no idea just how long Bodie had wanted him. OK, so Bodie had waited to confess only when he truly believed they were about to die, but to his mind that made it worse. Bodie might never have got around to telling him, just secretly lusting after him for god-knows how long. It was just one more thing he hadn't known, until the previous day, about his enigmatic partner.

He had to say something — anything — to break the tension. "Don't look at me like that — like you're a starvin' man looking in a butcher's window."

Bodie said nothing, his face, his eyes giving nothing away.

Just ignore the sod, Doyle decided.

Not wanting to stay there any longer than he had to, he ducked his head briefly under the water, and resurfacing, grasped hold of a bottle of shampoo. After the first wash, he ducked under again and then added more soap, scrubbing vigorously. This time he used the shower attachment to rinse, and standing up, he climbed out and grabbed one of the nearby towels. It felt warm and luxurious, and bigger than he'd at first realised, it enveloped him. With his back to Bodie, he dried off a little and put on his robe. With a smaller towel, he began to rub his hair dry and without a backward glance at his partner, sauntered out of the bathroom.

He chose a bedroom at the opposite end of the apartment to where Bodie was. The centrepiece of the room was a huge mahogany bed, its mattress at least three feet off the floor and covered in a white, heavy cotton bedspread. The room itself was light and airy, its white walls reflecting the sunlight streaming in through the open window. Outside in the distance, he could hear a man's voice chanting as he called Muslims to prayer. He needed rest and sleep, so closing the window, he pulled the heavy burgundy and gold velvet curtains across, plunging the room into darkness.

Dropping the robe onto a chair, he climbed into the bed and felt his body relax on the soft mattress, his head sinking gratefully onto goose-down pillows. A sigh escaped him, the nightmare of the last 12 hours finally over.

Five minutes later, he changed position for the third time as sleep eluded him. The trouble was, relaxing as the bath had been, the discussion he'd had with Bodie while in it, and more to the point, the unanswered questions that discussion had thrown up, were now ricocheting around his head.

What did he want from his life? Really want? To be happy. Of course — everyone wanted that. He wanted to feel as though he could make a difference in this world — it was why he chose CI5 — the Met, he had discovered, was too restricted and too constricting for him.

Of course he could do some profession that was nice and safe and start a family. But so far, he'd not met a woman he'd really thought he could settle down with. With all of the women he'd gone out with, when it had come down to a choice between them and his work, there had never really been any contest. So much for commitment. The reality was that two point two kids and a nice semi in the suburbs wasn't really his life goal. It's not what would make him happy — not even close. Happiness. Could Bodie make him happy? Well, he already pretty much did. There was a sense of completion, of satisfaction when around his partner, whenever they shared the same space. He hadn't lied to Bodie, he really did love him, and intuitively he knew it would take just the smallest step to be in love with him.

He realised he'd come to a crossroads in his life. In one direction, he could take the nice, smooth road to a predictable and conventional future. It was uncomplicated and straight — literally — as far as he could see. The path of the other road was obscured and would present many challenges; it was the road of non-conformity, the road, he realised with an almost sickening lurch, that he'd already been walking down for most of his life.

From an early age he'd been a rebel, a non-conformist, shrugging off peer pressure. While those around him were bleating in their flocks, he'd done his own thing, and never gave a damn what anyone thought.

Doyle recalled what had happened when it had been discovered that he'd been going to art classes. He'd taken a lot of ribbing for that, not to mention earning his father's disapproval at doing something so 'soft'. Then one evening at the community centre, someone had decided if he liked art, then he must be a poof. All that night, he'd tried hard to ignore the prat, but when the bloke had tried to land a punch, he'd had no option but to defend himself — and that was how the idiot had discovered the hard way that aside from drawing type-of-art classes, he'd also been going to martial arts classes. The irony of it all was that the bloke had to an extent been right about him being a poof, as by then, he'd discovered that on occasion, he enjoyed indulging in male-sex.

By the end of the first year after leaving school, half the people he'd grown up with had managed to get themselves some sort of criminal record and many had become full-time crooks. Meanwhile, he had once again gone against the grain and decided to join the Met. It was not out of a sense of altruism, however, that he had made that choice, but because Nick, who had been his best friend, had died of a drugs overdose. Drugs Nick had bought from another 'friend'. The pusher had gone to ground and when he'd tried to get the Police to follow-up the case, he'd found them uninterested. In the overall scheme of things, one addict's death was unimportant to his local county force which was overworked and under-funded. They couldn't spare the man-hours and, since Nick's family had disowned him after discovering his homosexuality, they weren't pushing for justice either.

Following on from those memories, Doyle conceded his life's path had always been anything other than straight. So, what if he did take Bodie as his lover? How would it impact on his job, his life, his choices?

As far as the job was concerned, the big question was could they still work effectively as a team or would becoming lovers affect their synergy? The only real problem he could see on that score was that they could become over-protective of each other. It would have to be something they would need to talk out. The trouble was that Bodie's declaration had already irrevocably altered the dynamics of their team, so even if he wanted to, they could never go back to what they had.

He'd been through all this with Nick. They'd been best mates all through school and then one day, they'd been messing around mock-wrestling, when suddenly they were hard for each other. Nick had been so hurt when he'd made it plain that that had been a one-off.

Whilst his friend had accepted that he'd not wanted to take their sexual relationship further, he knew it was not Nick's choice. After Nick's death, it had been easy to blame the dependency on drugs on his friend's difficulty accepting his homosexuality and his family's rejection of him because of it — Nick had never been comfortable with it, the way he himself had always been. It was only later that he'd had to accept that his refusal to have a full sexual relationship had not only depressed Nick, but had given his friend a signal that he didn't think it was the right thing for two men to be doing — adding to Nick's own guilt at what he was.

Remembering how Nick had changed, he knew that Bodie, too, would be changed. And knowing what he now knew of Bodie, so he himself had changed. So, in terms of the team, their current status, as already seen that day, was going to bring disharmony where being lovers would likely make them more in tune with each other.

What about his life then? Was having a family really that important to him? Continuation of the Doyle gene-pool was assured through his siblings and, since he was being honest with himself today, he wasn't really that into kids anyway. He'd always assumed that what everyone said about seeing your own kids differently would change him on that score.

He already spent as much of his time-off with Bodie as his partner would allow, and preferred Bodie's companionship over any of the girls he'd been out with lately. Bodie was easy to be around — he was good company and fun to be with. He was undemanding, understanding and unassuming.

Love - there was no question about it — it was definitely love.

So, what were his choices? Stay in CI5 with Bodie and live with the knowledge that Bodie loved him, wanted him. Not viable — one or both could easily end up dead due to lack of concentration with such an unresolved issue between them. He could stay in CI5 but ask to be re-partnered. He'd have to explain why to Cowley, and that just didn't bear thinking about. Leave or ask Bodie to leave CI5. No way to either.

So that left one more option. Become lovers with Bodie and ensure they talk through all possible problems such an arrangement could have on their professional and personal life. After some minutes, he realised he could think of no reason why he should choose this option. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised it was what he himself truly wanted.

He lay for a few minutes more, staring up at the ceiling. Finally silently reaching a decision, he quietly climbed out of bed and padded through the living room to Bodie's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and beyond it, the room was in darkness, leaving him wondering if Bodie was already asleep. He'd lost track of time, but he was certain it had been well over an hour since they'd parted company in the bathroom.

He hesitated. Walking through that door would change their partnership forever; there'd be no turning back. He'd be stepping over the threshold to a commitment to a full-blown relationship. With any luck, and probably after a lot of give and take, it could be the final one of his life. His mouth had gone dry, his hands hot and sweaty. Should he or shouldn't he? Now or never?

With his heart beating hard in his chest and adrenaline coursing through his body, Doyle pushed the door fully open and walked in. He stopped just inside the door, fearing he might hyperventilate as his ears buzzed and his fingers tingled. It was harder to do than he could have possibly imagined.

"Ray?" Bodie called, sitting up in the bed and switching on a dim bedside light.

Doyle couldn't find the words he needed to explain and so silently walked towards the bed. It was the longest walk of his life.

He stopped when he got level with Bodie and looked down at him sitting there, a hopeful look on his face. His throat constricted — he hadn't made it easy for Bodie and now it was clear his partner wasn't at all sure how to take his sudden appearance.

Bodie extended a hand and he took it, climbing onto the bed and underneath the cover being held back for him. As the cover dropped, Doyle caught a waft of the warm, concentrated scent of Bodie, mixed in with the pine and citrus from the bath. A heady mixture.

They lay facing each other, Doyle simply taking in his fill, his hand resting lightly on his lover's waist. Bodie brought his hand up, his thumb stroking his lips, fingers tracing the surfaces of his face, the curve of his eyebrows, the shell of an ear; all the time, their gaze never wavering.

It seemed strange to Doyle to be so close to Bodie — although they'd already made love, it had been in total darkness. And for Bodie to be looking at him like that, with such open affection, such concentration. Once again it was that look, and yet so much more, affection shining in his eyes, adding another beautiful dimension.

Doyle wanted more, and leaning forward, placed a small kiss on Bodie's lips, unable to do more without their noses bumping. A distant thought at the back of his brain noted that Bodie, too, had shaved, so no danger of stubble burns. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he leaned over Bodie, who turned onto his back, and kissed him again, opening his mouth, this time to run his tongue along the lips. The kiss was sweet and gentle, a shiver running through his partner's body. Strong arms came up and wrapped themselves around his neck, as Bodie opened his mouth to touch tongue on tongue.

They stayed like that, Doyle content to enjoy the sensations their kissing aroused. After a while he wanted more and, continuing the kiss, he ran his fingers across Bodie's chest, tweaking his right nipple until it formed a hard nub. His hand slid downwards along the lean, well-muscled torso, encountering hair at the navel. He was hard for Bodie, rubbing his cock against his lover's thigh rhythmically. He took hold of Bodie's erection and it was… he ran his hand along the length to make sure. No, he hadn't been mistaken. Bodie's cock was definitely oiled and slick…

"Bodie?" he asked, pushing himself up.

Bodie smiled self-consciously. "Yeah well, after sharing a bath with the most desirable body in the kingdom, I had a little problem. I'd just done something about it when you arrived."

"50 off the top," Doyle interpreted with a grin. That would explain the strong Bodie-smell as he'd got into the bed. It should have struck him as odd since he was just out of the bath. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with Bodie's right nipple again.

"Dunno about 50 — the way I felt, I reckon it only took about 20 pulls."

"Bloody hell, have to admire your stayin' power - I'd never get it back up this quickly."

"Yeah, well the fantasy pales compared to the reality I've got in my arms," Bodie admitted.

"You were fantasisin' about me?" The idea appealed greatly. It gave him a sense of power.

"Yeah," Bodie admitted with a reminiscent smile.

Curiosity got the better of Doyle. "Tell us what it was about."

"I can't do that," said Bodie indignantly.

"Kinky, was it?" he wanted to know, now really intrigued.

"No. Was just… private."

Doyle conceded that point, realising he'd probably never confess half his fantasies to Bodie, even under pain of death. Under the cover he took a firm hold of Bodie's cock, making him jump at its unexpectedness.

"You're not the only one who's got a vivid imagination when it comes to his partner," he admitted, running his hand up and down the slick length, as his lover's hips bucked satisfyingly.

Bodie looked genuinely surprised at his admission. "You've fantasised about me?"

"Oh yeah. Been doin' that since the first day we met, mate."

"Me too," Bodie confessed with a sheepish grin. "I fancied you the moment I laid eyes on you in Cowley's office. Then you opened your gob. Put me right off for a while, but not long."

Doyle ducked his head, embarrassed. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. You've got this uncanny knack of bringin' out the worst in me, sometimes."

"And the best," Bodie pointed out. "It must be hard having to compete with such perfection, but it does seem to raise your standards," he grinned.

For once, Doyle didn't rise to the bait — he had far more important objectives in mind. "Love the thought of all that strength, love your body… love you…"

He leant down and kissed Bodie hard, grinding his mouth against his lover's. Lover — yeah, he liked the sound of that.

With a loud, wet sound, he pulled his mouth away, and drawing back the covers, straddled Bodie's hips. Looking down at the man lying beneath him, he took in the sensuous expression on Bodie's face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his pouting lips still parted and wet from his kisses. Bodie looked so sexy, so appealing, so…enticing.

Forbidden love, the love between two men, two equals in strength. Until now, it had always been like an itch to him, one he'd had to scratch periodically between the women he dated. To be able to sink himself into another man's body, to enjoy the hard, angled planes that felt so different from the women he'd made love to, he finally acknowledged as having truly been his greatest pleasure. Yet, for all of that, he'd never allowed any of the men he'd bedded to be any more than anonymous fucks, blissful one-night stands to satisfy an urge he neither understood nor questioned. Now, to be able to have all that he needed, yearned for, with a man for whom he cared deeply — loved — added a dimension, a passion, he could scarcely believe.

His gaze roamed hungrily over Bodie's body, taking in the wide, almost bare chest, which rose and fell rapidly, the nipples contracted into small, pink peaks, the flat, muscled stomach, the dark hair which began as a line leading down from his navel, the hard cock lying in a black nest. His own cock jutted out above Bodie's, the small slit weeping with excitement.

Knowing that Bodie was watching him closely, he took his right index finger and slowly smeared the drops of pre-cum around and around the head of his cock, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the watcher. Needing more stimulation, he ran his hands up and down the length, his balls aching with the need to release.

Sitting above Bodie was much like being a child in a sweet factory, the feast laid out before him. Where to start? Between his legs, he held captive Bodie's corded thighs and as he sat there above him, he felt a shiver, a frisson of excitement, run through his lover's body. Bodie lay absolutely still, expectant, his arms splayed out on the bed, his hands the only sign of tension as they lay curled in fists. It was almost, Doyle thought, as if he feared he might be an apparition which would disappear in the next instant.

As he watched, Bodie slowly shifted his gaze from his groin where he was still slowly pumping his cock, their eyes meeting, intense and electric, understanding and trust flowing between them.

Doyle leant down, and fastening on one of Bodie's nipples, sucked avidly. Getting little reaction, he tried the other. "Dead from the waist up, are you?" he enquired sweetly when his actions failed to have the expected effect.

"I've got plenty of erogenous zones, but that's not one of them," explained Bodie.

"Whereabouts?"

Bodie smiled. "That's for me to know, and you to find out." He wriggled enticingly.

"That a challenge?"

"If you like."

Despite the strong need for release, Doyle liked the sound of the game and was quite happy to go along with it since it would provide him with the opportunity to explore his new lover more thoroughly. "Right mate, you're on. An' I'll leave the most obvious one," he said, glancing at Bodie's cock, "'til last. I'll have you squirmin'."

With that, he scooted back a short way and leaning forward, dipped his tongue into Bodie's navel, nearly causing him to jack-knife. Doyle looked up with a wicked grin. "Blimey, didn't take long to find that one." He ran his tongue around Bodie's belly, watching with amusement as it twitched involuntarily. Circling around the edge of the navel he caught sight of Bodie clenching the sheet in his fists in anticipation.

"You're lucky I've just had a bath," said Bodie, his voice tight with tension, "else you'd've got a mouthful of fluff."

Doyle grinned. "I'll be sure to remember that tip." With that, he dipped his tongue back in and felt Bodie grab his head and groan. Beneath his chin, Bodie's cock stretched out in a demand for attention, which he duly ignored.

He sat up on his haunches again. "Hmmm," he murmured thoughtfully, as he surveyed Bodie's body. Bodie's mouth was like a beacon calling him, and giving in to the impulse, he leant forward to take his lips in a gentle kiss. He felt Bodie take hold of his cock and batted his hand away. "Don't…" he said quietly between light pecks, "I'm very close an'… I don't want to come yet."

"I've got nothing to play with," Bodie complained.

"Be patient, an' you'll be rewarded."

Bodie smiled, his eyebrow twitching with amusement. "Prize for good behaviour, is that it?"

"Um…mmm," Doyle agreed, as his lips travelled over Bodie's face, kissing one eyelid, then the other, charting the well-known features in a new and arousing way.

His mouth travelled over a cheek and down towards the ear, his tongue running around and into the shell. A suck on the lobe produced a satisfying response as Bodie shuddered. Bodie ran his hands up and down his back and then came to rest on his buttocks.

Aha, another sensitive spot, Doyle thought with an inward smile. Bodie turned his head to give him better access and taking full advantage, he took the lobe between his teeth and gently worried it. A gasp told him it was having a positive effect. Not wanting the other ear to feel left out, he moved across and turning Bodie's head, repeated the ministrations.

After a few minutes, he ran a trail of kisses down Bodie's neck, giving in to the urge to mark his territory with a lovebite — Bodie could always cover it with one of his polonecks, he justified to himself. It was only a small one at the base of his throat, close to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a small pink/purple mark. Raymond Doyle was here.

"Perfect," Doyle whispered, sitting up. His balls were beginning to ache with the need to release, though the urgency had subsided.

"Eh?"

"You. You're fuckin' perfect. Why've we waited this long?"

As he sat there, Bodie stretched up to cup his face and run his thumb over his lips. Doyle closed his eyes momentarily, enjoying the brief, gentle contact. "I think," said Bodie, "we both needed to be ready for this. It's a big step to take."

Doyle opened his eyes and capturing the hand, placed a kiss on the palm before guiding it down to his cock. Bodie gripped it expertly, causing a shudder to run through him.

"Ah love, can tell you've done this before," Doyle smiled lasciviously.

"Actually, I consider myself something of an expert."

"Yeah, think I read that at base…first floor toilet, the wall of the second cubicle, it says 'Bodie, King of Wankers'…ow! Watch it! I like my tackle in their current configuration, thank you very much. Still not got over the last battering they took."

"Say you're sorry," demanded Bodie with a pout, his hand enclosing Doyle's testicles threateningly.

Doyle tried hard not to smile, and somehow managed to resist bending forward to kiss those lovely lips. "Sorry," he said in a voice which he knew Bodie would recognise as being entirely insincere.

"That's better. Now do you intend to stay there looking pretty or are you going to fuck the living daylights out of me?"

Just the mere thought made him ache with desire and his cock throb with need. His resistance gone, he slowly moved forward, lowering himself to lie on Bodie, their cocks nudging, jumping, straining towards each other as if of their own volition. He hovered just above the luscious mouth. The feel of Bodie beneath him, all that strength leashed, he found a powerful aphrodisiac. "Fuckin' gorgeous, you are," he whispered, verbalising his thoughts.

Undulating together, his kiss was hard and demanding as his tongue urgently explored Bodie's mouth. After a minute, he broke away, panting. "Where's the stuff?" He couldn't wait much longer as his control was swiftly vanishing.

"Bedside cabinet," Bodie ground out, pulling Doyle against him to help increase the friction.

Doyle wriggled until he was released and leaning over, fumbled for a moment until he found the drawer and opened it. His wandering hand found a small bottle of oil. Meanwhile, Bodie had half sat up and fastened his mouth on a very sensitive nipple. An arrow of arousal shot to his groin.

"Keep that up an' I can't be held responsible for the consequences."

"That sensitive, eh?" Bodie asked, a speculative expression on his face.

"Yeah, that sensitive," Doyle smiled.

Bodie subsided back to the pillow as Doyle ran his hands down Bodie's torso, his fingertips finding the skin soft and warm. A few minutes later, Doyle had got them both prepared. With chagrin he felt certain that the moment he pressed into Bodie, he'd go off like a rocket. Bodie had elected to do it 'doggie fashion' as he'd quaintly put it, so holding onto his hips, he knelt between Bodie's legs and centred himself.

With more self-control than he would have given himself credit for, Doyle found himself, a minute later, sheathed in the most gloriously tight heat of Bodie. Panting with the effort to hold himself in check, he took firm hold of Bodie's cock and easing himself back, gave an experimental thrust.

The feel was so wonderful, the whole idea of what he was doing so overwhelming, that when Bodie groaned, the sexy sound was enough to send him over the edge, coming hard with five distinct pulses. It was all he could do not to collapse onto Bodie's back. Carefully pulling out, he reached around to find Bodie still rock-hard.

"Sorry, I couldn't hold it," he explained to Bodie as they rearranged themselves on the bed. "Told you I was close. Soon as I got inside you, I just lost it. You felt… fantastic."

"'S all right, as long as you're not going to leave me like this."

"Do you want to do me?" The thought excited him beyond belief. Bodie fucking him, possessing him. Yes.

"You up to it?" The hopeful tone to his voice was undisguised.

"Oh yeah."

"Turn over then."

Doyle complied and found himself the recipient of a wonderful backrub, compounding his post-climax lassitude, as his body moulded itself into the bed. Bodie worked his way down his back and began to rub his arse, gently kneading it. Without warning, he pulled his buttocks apart and ran his tongue along the crack. The feeling was electric and Doyle opened his legs further to give Bodie better access. Bodie did what he'd hoped and began to rim him, his tongue creating such wonderful sensations, he began to writhe. He heard a low-level moaning and it took a moment to realise it was him making the noise. Amazingly, his cock began to fill.

"Like that do you?" Bodie asked innocently.

Instead of answering, Doyle took Bodie's hand and lifting himself up, put it against his hardening shaft.

"What do you think? Woken the bloody dead, you have."

Behind him, Bodie chuckled and then bent back to his task, somehow managing to keep hold of his cock while creating the most delicious feeling, to which Doyle gave very vocal approval. He was enjoying himself so much, he forgot about Bodie's condition until reminded a few minutes later.

"Ray…"

The tone of Bodie's voice spoke volumes, making Doyle look over his shoulder with a contrite expression on his face. Gently pulling away, he turned onto his back. "Want to watch," he explained. "Want to see your face when you come."

For the first time, Bodie lay on him, his heavy body pinning him to the bed. It felt good, and got better when Bodie kissed him thoroughly.

It was only when Bodie eased his bulk into him a few minutes later that he realised his partner definitely had the greater girth. Relaxed in the aftermath of his own orgasm and the massage, penetration was easier than it had been on the few occasions he'd allowed it before. It was something he'd rarely indulged in, but he'd fantasised about Bodie doing it often enough. He discovered that reality found his imagination wanting.

Unused to it, the fullness felt uncomfortable but not painful and Bodie, unmoving, patiently waited for him to become accustomed to it. Doyle wriggled experimentally and felt Bodie's balls graze his buttocks.

"OK?" Bodie asked, looking concerned.

"It'll feel better when you start movin'."

Bodie pulled back and thrust gently, grazing his prostate in the process. A shockwave went through him, centring on his cock.

"Yes, do that again," Doyle commanded through clenched teeth.

Bodie readily complied, pushing a little harder, as Doyle pumped himself. With each thrust, he vocalised his encouragement. Above him, Bodie's eyes were shut in concentration, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. Then he stopped moving.

"Getting close," he whispered, his voice cracking with the effort to hold back.

"You're so beautiful, Bodie. Don't know how I kept my hands off you this long." 

Bodie opened his eyes and smiled down at him. It was that look, but again with so much more. From the open expression on Bodie's face, his feelings, his love shone out.

Doyle's abiding fear had always been that if he ever made love with Bodie, he'd be unable to stop. Now he knew it to be fact, but he no longer feared it; indeed, he actively embraced the idea of a committed relationship with this man who meant so much to him.

Doyle moved to encourage his lover to go on.

"Want it to last forever," Bodie explained.

"It will," Doyle assured him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Bodie looked so happy then, and began to move inside him. Each push against his prostate took him closer to his own climax as he pumped himself vigorously. His previous orgasm was making this one harder to achieve. He looked up to Bodie above him, muscles on his trim body rippling, skin gleaming with perspiration, sweat trickling down his face from his temples, his eyes still open, watching him. Bodie was inside him, fucking him, surrounding him, forcing a total surrender which he willingly gave. The eroticism of the moment gave him that final push and he came hard, his muscles spasming and contracting around Bodie's cock. His lover cried out his name, thrust deep and climaxed with him.

 

Doyle was unsure how long they had slept, but when he came to, he opened his eyes to find Bodie watching him. Not yet used to it, the adoring look disconcerted him.

"Why'm I lyin' in the wet patch?" he asked in a bid to lighten the atmosphere.

Bodie smiled. "Same reason I am, I expect."

Doyle studied the face before him, recalling the expression on Bodie's face as he'd come. The intensity of that look had taken his breath away. It had held a note of hunger and hinted at a possessiveness he suspected Bodie was trying to keep hidden. If Bodie had never told him of his love, he would have known it anyway after that.

Under the covers he found Bodie's hand and took it into a loose clasp. "How did you know about me?" At the puzzled expression he added, "You know, goin' with blokes occasionally?"

Doyle was intrigued by the guilty look that suddenly appeared on Bodie's face. "It was about a month ago, just before you started going out with Jenny. I was supposed to be seeing Amanda but she had to go up north — family crisis or something, so I went round to your place. Dunno why, but I thought I'd surprise you and instead of ringing, just let myself in…"

"An' you found me with another bloke," Doyle concluded, letting go of Bodie's hand and feeling annoyed at the invasion of his privacy. "In bed?" he needed to know.

"No, you were just necking on the sofa. Didn't hang about. I'm sorry."

"So you bloody well should be," he snapped. After a minute, he moved his hand up and ran a finger along Bodie's cheek. "I'll get over it," he said more quietly. "Suppose I should be thankful — wouldn't be here, now, otherwise."

Bodie smiled. "Christ knows how I managed to fall for a bad-tempered little sod like you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere. An' you're not exactly what I imagined my dream partner would be either." Bodie's face seemed to close off at those words and Doyle immediately regretted saying it. "Don't worry about it, Bodie. All it was, was a dream. I much prefer reality, an' you're it. OK?"

"How long will it last?" Bodie asked, insecurity very evident in his voice.

Doyle reached again for Bodie's hand, and pulled it up to his mouth to kiss the fingers. "If I'm honest, I'd say I don't know. But you're important to me, more important, I realised today, than the job — than anyone else in my life. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Bodie looked puzzled, but remained silent.

Doyle propped himself up on one hand. "Don't you see? I told you this mornin' that I intended to settle down after I'd got this job out of my system — I've never been prepared to give it up for anyone — no-one's been that important to me. Until now. You are — an' if Cowley doesn't like us together, I'd tell him to stuff his job."

Bodie grinned. "You bloody well would, wouldn't you? Well, I would too."

Doyle leant down to nuzzle Bodie's irresistible lips. "Are we goin' to tell the Cow?" he asked after the light kiss.

Bodie shrugged. "Up to you. If we do, let's leave it for a bit, eh?"

"Yeah. Fine by me," Doyle agreed and lay back down.

"So, what do you want to know about me?" Bodie asked.

"What? What you on about?"

"You said you didn't think you really knew me, didn't know anything about my background. Tell me what you want to know. It's not easy for me to open up — it doesn't come naturally, but if you think it'll help you to understand me..." Bodie's voice faltered.

A wave of tenderness broke over Doyle at the realisation that Bodie was willing to open up, to reveal his secrets, in order to get it right between them. He put a finger on Bodie's lips. "All in good time, mate."

Bodie's relief was almost palpable.

"Well, there is one thing I was wondering about…" he continued.

"Yeah?" He could hear Bodie trying to sound nonchalant.

"At the start of the flight, you did that code with Pete — what did you say to him?"

Bodie chuckled. "Told the silly prat to shut it."

"That was it?"

"Yup," Bodie confirmed. "Think he got the message."

"I'd say so," Doyle noted with a smile. "Was quite enjoyin' findin' out more about you."

"Know you were, which is why I put a stop to it. I'm sure the Cow saddled me with a nosy partner on purpose…ooof!"

Doyle grinned down at Bodie as he sat straddling his chest, knowing full well Bodie easily had the strength to shift him.

"Take that back!" Doyle demanded, enjoying himself immensely.

Bodie looked as though he was about to say something when he was interrupted by the shrill sound of the phone ringing. Doyle's leant over to the beside table and picked up the handset.

"Hello," he said tentatively.

"Four-five?"

"Sir." He'd forgotten they'd asked to speak to their boss. Putting a hand over the speaker, he mouthed 'The Cow,' to Bodie, as if he hadn't already guessed.

"Is 3.7 there? I want to speak to the both of you." Cowley asked.

"I'll get him to pick up an extension." With that, he climbed off his partner and gesticulated towards the living room. With a look of appreciation and an inward smile, he watched Bodie's naked form rise from the bed and pad through the door. From where he was, he could still see Bodie as he picked up the phone in the other room.

A click. "Here sir," came Bodie's voice, all echo-y.

"Apparently the two of you are heroes. Having saved the life of King Hussein's son, he's requested that he be allowed to extend you his hospitality for the next week."

"What about Gardiner?" Doyle had to ask. After all, that was the whole reason for them going — they needed to get him back by the end of the week.

"Lucas and McCabe are booked on the next flight to Amman. They'll be there later today, assuming this one isn't hijacked too, and will escort him home."

"Has anyone been able to find out," asked Bodie, "how the PFM…"

Doyle managed to stifle a snigger and earned a dirty look from Bodie.

"…managed to smuggle their arms on board?"

"Ah yes," Cowley answered. "Bit of an unfortunate name considering those initials." Doyle could hear the smile in his boss's voice and stuck his tongue out at his partner. "We've arrested an accomplice," Cowley continued, oblivious to the by-play between his two operatives, "who worked in the catering department. He's admitting to having placed the guns in an empty trolley. The hijackers were banking on the fact that the galleys aren't supervised at all times during the in-flight service. This fact meant that one of them was able to retrieve their weapons before they were discovered by the crew when it was time to collect in the waste."

"Sounds like a bit of a loophole in the security system," Doyle pointed out.

"Aye," agreed Cowley. "and the airport has been on security alert all week, following a tip-off, only no-one informed me."

In that final statement, Doyle could hear the 'heads-will-roll' tone to Cowley's voice. Considering what might have happened had they not been there, he was in no doubt that someone was in for the chop.

"What about us?" Doyle heard Bodie ask.

"What about you?" Cowley repeated as if he'd just been asked the most stupid question in the world. "You two are to stay there until King Hussein says you can leave. Is that quite clear, three-seven?"

"Yes sir."

"And you will accept no monetary reward. I've asked the Foreign Secretary to explain that it is not customary for rewards to be given to men who are just doing their job."

"Right sir. Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. This week will be deducted from your annual leave entitlement."

"Naturally," he heard Bodie mutter.

"Are you trying to be funny, three-seven?"

"Who me, sir?" Bodie asked in his most innocent voice. Doyle had to suppress his laughter.

"One more thing. I've read your report…"

The two men held their breaths — he was sounding particularly severe.

"…Well done, the pair of you — you did a fine job. Enjoy yourselves. Alpha One out."

They hung up and a moment later, Bodie reappeared.

"Oh we will," Doyle grinned.

At that, Bodie threw him a particularly lecherous look. "Oh, yeah, we definitely will!"

 

[finis]


End file.
